


Stalin and Truman: Love Beyond The Cold War

by moderncorg



Category: 20th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Political RPF, Political RPF - Russian 20th c., Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c., Political RPF - US 20th c., World War Two - Fandom
Genre: 1945, Abduction, Abusive Past, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Angst, Attempted Murder, Attlee, BDSM, Berlin Blockade, Big Gay Love Story, Blood, Bondage, Boys Kissing, Candles, Capitalism, Cold War, Communism, Conference, Confessions, Crush at First Sight, Dark, Dictator, Dom/sub, Domination, Embarrassment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Extremely Sexually Active for an old man, Falling In Love, Fascism, Fetish, Fiction, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Flirting, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gay Rights, Gay Sex, Germany, Gore, Guilt, Harry is a Good Friend, Hetero to Homo, Homicide, Homophobia, Humiliation, I Love You More Than My Country, I don’t even know, Infidelity, Injury, Insecurity, Jealousy, LGBT, LGBTQ Themes, Labour party, M/M, Male Slash, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Mourning, Multi, Murder, Nazis, Nazism, Niche - Freeform, Not entirely historically accurate, Objectification of Winston Churchill, Old Age, Oops, Orgasm, Orgy, Patriotism, Physical Abuse, Plot Twist, Political, Political Alliances, Polyester Trousers, Polygamy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potsdam Conference, President, Protectiveness, Rape/Non-con Elements, Relationship(s), Riding Crop, Rivalry, Romance, Roughness, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sadism, Satire, Secrets, Self-Denial, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smut, Soulmates, Soviet Union, Soviets, Submission, Tension, Threesome m/m/m, Trauma, Truman - Freeform, USA, USSR, WW2, War, Weapons, White House, Xenophobia, based on real life, bicurious, colloquialism, explicit - Freeform, horse, linear narrative, psychotic, stalin - Freeform, suicidal, tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-15 14:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 20,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13032981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moderncorg/pseuds/moderncorg
Summary: The Potsdam Conference (1945), Joseph Stalin meets with Harry Truman to discuss issues regarding World War Two. Stalin has a huge crush on Truman and it turns out that Truman also has a crush on Stalin. Stalin and Truman embark on a controversial relationship, their ideologies collide and their relationship is put to the test.This Fiction is based on true events, some events in this miniature novel may not be historically accurate.—This is the start of The Cold War historians and history books don’t tell you about.—





	1. Chapter 1

Joseph Stalin anticipated his meeting with Harry Truman, the widespread American Capitalist in charge of the prosperous free world. Though Stalin knew that Clement Attlee would be attending the Potsdam Conference, this didn't arouse Stalin's interests for he was solely devoted to the bodily vessel of Harry. S. Truman, the elderly man with many attractive features. Joseph previously heard the incalculable speculations of Harry's physical appearance, Stalin had seen pictures and written documentations detailing accounts with Harry Truman, (all of which were illicitly obtained by Soviet Spies) but he'd never before seen him in person, face to face. He was told of Truman's slender figure, his irresistible pelvis shape, the way his clavicles rested between his prominent sternum and his golden hair. Although Stalin's regime opposed homosexuality, Stalin was rebellious. Through his experiences of entrapping masses of his own population in gulags, he had acquired a skill for defying social norms that had formed the fundamental rudiments of The Soviet Union. Homosexuality was generally disparaged globally in the 1940s and so experiencing sexual attraction to an individual of the same sex would be viewed as unconventional, and unconventional is what Stalin yearned to be. For Stalin, the thought of being unique and not just a simplistic 'blip' in one's eternal timeline fornicated with Stalin's thoughts. He didn't fear the negative stigma of homosexuality nor the stigma of being an ardent capitalist sympathiser solely for the love of irresistible men.

For a romantic interest to alter the way one thinks and processes information is not uncommon. However, this case is different, it deviates from the conventional paths of politics and western cooperation. Joseph Stalin was a man of many surprises, a ruthless dictator with no care of the impactful consequences to ensue. Somehow, Stalin had presumed Harry Truman would alter Stalin's views - that is if Harry Truman was willing to convert The United States of America to be communist - but Stalin knew that was too much to ask for. His demanding requirements had often influenced Stalin's decisions which ultimately dictated not only Stalin's emotions and desires but also the Soviet Union.

Stalin had ensured the vacancy at a reputable, (or what can be called reputable considering the dire economic state prevailing in Germany after World War Two) German restaurant. If things were to succeed at the Potsdam conference, Stalin wanted to make sure he and Truman could discuss topics other than politics at the restaurant, without the bothersome presence of the walking human receding hairline that was Clement Attlee.

The two previous conferences Tehran in Iran and Yalta in Russia had both been a bore for Stalin. Winston Churchill and Franklin. D. Roosevelt had gotten on too well, no qualms or oppositions surfaced (apart from the minor disagreement of Stalin's desire to destroy Germany and the bizonia's optimism of economic and industrial opportunity for Germany after the war). Stalin yearned for a dramatic incident to occur, perhaps a _genocide_ or even a drop of an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan, _anything_ that would break from the conventional chains of civil tolerance at the conferences. Like an adolescent girl falling in love, Stalin was willing to jeopardise his position as head of the Soviet Union for a crush - a man he praised.

Stalin had an atrocious record of previous relationships, by the age of fifty-seven he'd already divorced two women. He had obtained a disreputable character with his inability of maintaining stable marriages with women. Nonetheless, Stalin was exasperated with the vast availability of promiscuous females whom he'd received sexual 'satisfaction' from, or that is what Stalin tells the women. Stalin craved something peculiar for a powerful man in his position, no amount of power nor women could satiate his appetite anymore. He craved a _man_ , quite a controversial man.


	2. Attlee

The air was bitter and cold, Stalin became reminiscent of what he called ‘home’. It was the same arctic winds as his Siberian winters back in the Soviet Union. To accompany the coagulations of frost roaming the room, Stalin bore a fur hat, a fur hat he'd successfully crafted whilst hunting recreationally during his long stay at his private - and well guarded cabin in Onedir. Stalin had hoped that Harry Truman would take notice of his effort to appear vaguely attractive for a man in his fifties, a man with poor health as he’d smoke more than twenty-two cigars in a single day. Stalin was proud of his garment, the well-constructed fabric masterpiece that held a large significance in the heart of Stalin. This was no time for the hubristic side of Stalin to prevail, Stalin needed to present himself as a pure man. A man with intent to bed him in the evening.

Stalin proceeded to advance into the room, three chairs compartmentalised into three distinct sectors, was how Stalin saw it. He could almost sense the bizonia forming against his East German sector of Berlin. He placed his hind quarters upon the fur coated armchair, resting his large round bodily pillows on the pillow. His three soviet assistants, all wearing the Soviet marking upon their shoulders, adjusted Stalin's hat, Stalin was persistent that his hat shouldn't be disarrayed. “I _need_ to please Harry.” Stalin urgently pleaded to Vladimir Krakowski, his trustworthy aide. The red came to Stalin's face as the words flowed from his Soviet tongue. Stalin was shameful of his little-girl-like demeanour, quickly, he raised his fur collar attached to his Soviet-style lapels and giggled to himself. "I am sorry, Mr Krakowski, you see, I am not usually like this," Stalin uttered under his harsh Russian native accent. Stalin knew that he shouldn't propound his homosexual erotic feelings towards the capitalist Harry Truman, for he knew it was sinful.

Stalin jolted his dense facial hair towards the glistening oak door. He composed himself: correcting his informal Russian posture, straightening his slanted fur hat and finally moisturising his fingers with the lick of his tongue and coating his dishevelled moustache with a layer of his vodka scented saliva.

Stalin vehemently grabbed and squeezed the thigh of his trusted aid, Vladimir. Vladimir released a satisfactory squeal and proceeded to slap Stalin's wrist, to overtly display his opposition to Stalin's supposed invitation to initiate a homosexual copulation. But of course, that wasn't an invitation. It was a display of Stalin's excitement. He could sense Harry Truman approaching.

Stalin watched intently, with his eyes adhered to the oak's immaculate partial diffuse reflection.

A polished boot appeared from the bottom left corner of the oak door, Stalin resisted the temptation to drool at the sight of the boot. Knowing the boot was worn by an animate Greek god sculpture. Then the vibrant grey polyester trousers that yielded a perfect fold at the centre. Stalin could decipher the bone structure within the trouser leg, a man with a slim build, Truman. Stalin's heart race increased, he could feel the heavy pounding of his chest accelerating.

Then _the_ _face_. The face? It wasn't Stalin's fantasy nor was it his sexual desires. It was a disappointment. A receding hairline displaying an imperfect spherical forehead of chagrin. It was the failure of Clement Attlee. A man of little aesthetic satisfaction and a man of compliance. Stalin slouched his posture and rolled his eyes in disgust at the sight. Stalin, within twenty seconds, had learnt to resent the polyester trousers and the polished boots, no Greek god was behind those creations.

"Hello, Joseph. Good morning," Attlee announced. Attlee bore an alarming smile, it seemed to Stalin that Attlee was discomforted. But Stalin didn't care to console Attlee with his troubles.

Stalin reluctantly pressed his lips together and grinned, immediately diverting his eyes to the direction of his aide, Vladimir, whom he attempted to send a direct signal via facial communication to surface his concern with Attlee's irrelevant presence. Stalin assessed Attlee's fashion choices, what used to be a fashionable pair of grey polyester trousers - for an appealing capitalist sex god, had been reformed. The gay Russian spies had spread word of the attractiveness of a British accent but Attlee had proved this theory to be false.   
The concept of Clement Attlee parading in that attire seemed ungodly to Stalin. "Why doesn't he shave his head?” Stalin ruminated to himself. Attlee's receding hairline resembled that of the division of the Red Sea. Stalin scolded all who were associated with Clement Attlee. He started to contemplate whether Winston Churchill suited his sexual desires more than Attlee, and Churchill was a _very_ unattractive male. Somehow, the dangerously overweight man with a bulldog face suited Stalin’s sexual preferences more than Attlee.

"I can't go on like this anymore", Attlee whispered to himself on the opposite side of the room. Taking the edge of his pen and pulling it against his wrist in a horizontal position. He shook his head, gently laughing to himself. Stalin continued to tamper with the stray strands of his coat, oblivious to Attlee's personal issues and possible depression.

Stalin still ruminated over those dreaded grey polyester trousers, that crease no longer resembling the clean crease of a Greek God.


	3. The Greek God

Stalin had grown tired of Clement Attlee's troubles and suicidal tendencies and Truman's 'fashionably late' agenda. He rose from his armchair and started to walk towards the oak door, dragging his crimson scarf behind his seemingly static feet, both adhered to the room's floor. He was infuriated with the lack of Truman's presence and orchestrated his _own_ exit out of the room.

The previous conferences in Iran and Russia had both been professional and well-organised, the Potsdam Conference resembled a primitive attempt of a conference meeting. Harry Truman may be a feast for the eyes but no feast was worth waiting for an hour and Stalin was becoming ravenous. His intense hunger required nutrition in the form of an elderly American man with a concerning fascination with the deaths of thousands of Japanese civilians to come. "You can't spell fascination without fascism", Stalin thought, instantly realising that one _could_ spell fascination without fascism, even Stalin was embarrassed by his own error.

Stalin held onto the copper door handle, his eyes fixated on the spherical object adhered to the oak door. "Oh, hello there," a voice sounded from the other side of the oak door. Stalin was perplexed, he'd failed to decipher the exact direction of the coarse, indistinct voice. A strand of golden silk appeared at the edge of the door, a lock of hair retaining the iridescence of the Mediterranean seas. The entire collection of strands formed an eternal stream of golden rivers that resembled an Adonis Amurensis, a yellow coloured flower possessing the same properties as the golden gauntlet of sexual tension. The eyes. Oh, the eyes, Stalin pondered. They themselves held their own significance to the three-dimensional portrait.

Stalin rose his fur hat and made direct eye contact with the Greek God. Truman. All of the speculations were true, yet many would regard the ancient man as a disarrayed spool of excess skin. Stalin disparaged the slanderous remarks made by his associates, for her knew at heart, Truman was a feast for the eyes, and so he was. Truman's rested face was nonchalant, desolate of any signs of mental abrasion. Stalin closed his eyes, clenching his fists in opposition to his desires. "No, Joseph. Remain calm and he won't notice anything", he convinced himself.

Stalin quickly became consumed by his disorientation and his legs began to tremble. Truman was attentive to Stalin's exterior self and gained notice of Stalin's peculiar manor and placed his two hands onto Stalin's broad shoulders, slightly compressing his biceps. "Don't worry there, Joseph," Truman said. Then he glided with minimal effort to his position on the cushioned chair.   
"He knows my name,” Stalin ruminated. " _Oh_ , _my_ _Vladimir_ _Lenin_ , he knows my name!" Where Truman's hands had once been, Stalin's skin was pulsating, carrying minimal vibrations across every part of his body and every crevasse. He turned to face the direction of Truman's chair, slowly exhaling his carbon dioxide filled breath. Truman was organising the conference papers, a stack of ink-stained sheets possibly twenty-five centimetres high. Stalin analysed Truman's rhythmic patterns of finger adjustments, he could imagine those emaciated fingers fondling his external limbs and reproductive organs. As he gained explicit imagery of Truman engaging in sexual activities Stalin soon became obsessed with the thought of Truman without garments and his dominance over Stalin. How Stalin yearned to be toppled over by a man and forcefully pounded onto the ground.

" _Don't_ , Joseph. “Stalin reminded himself.

He composed himself once again, curling the sides of his lips to display his state of contentment to the numerous men in the surrounding area. Stalin couldn't help but to notice that he hadn't acknowledged the circular glasses Truman wore, the transparent highly-reflective spectacles he'd seen in the photos. Yes, those glasses. They were exemplary entities, conjoined to form a divine cosmos of transparent materials utilised to aid ones faulted sight. Each time Stalin looked into the eyes of Truman, he was able to see himself in the reflection of the circular spectacles. He would see himself drooling and dumbfounded at the sight of Harry. S. Truman.


	4. The Conference

The major news publications arrived, armed with their technological weaponry including their advanced cameras. Stalin felt pressurised to be presented as 'just as a pretty face', Stalin knew he was worth more than that. Though it was true that Stalin was considerably attractive for a man of his age, Stalin was the sole leader of the Soviet Union and as a result was required to maintain a substantial reputation for communism. Being physically attractive would help this, but as a toxic ideology in dire need of reform, Stalin needed more than just physical aesthetics to do that.

Prior to the conference, Stalin's advisors advocated for Stalin's prominent position within the conference, his aim was to overpower Attlee and Truman, but Stalin was hesitant to do so. Years of being a dominant partner in the bedroom, Stalin coveted submission. He'd previously played a prominent role in the other conferences with Roosevelt and Churchill, both men weren't so strenuous to overpower. Unlike Stalin's Soviet associates, he didn't yearn for domination despite his character presenting him that way. Inside, Stalin was sensitive and the endless facade was becoming diminished.

"I'd like to start this conference with a discussion regarding the issues of Germany's position." Attlee announced, fluttering his eyes at the momentary flash of a camera.   
"I think that'd be a great start," said the coarse tone of Harry Truman the thirty-third president of the United States of America. Yet again, that voice. That sweetening voice coated in cinnamon icing, soothing Stalin's throat as the thought created a surreal taste of sweet cinnamon in his mouth to overcome the immense prevalence of vodka aromas.   
"Germany shouldn't be destroyed at all, as Joseph had suggested we did. It is logical to rebuild Germany back to its economic prosperity." Truman said, partially biting the bottom of his lacking-moisture coral-coloured lips. Harry Truman completely opposed Stalin's agenda, but that didn't concern Stalin. Truman's godly curves were taking precedence over the welfare of his nation. Stalin didn't care to interject, though Truman was taking advantage of him, and Stalin didn't particularly take lightly to that, Stalin presumed that it was a dominating factor to Truman. Rather than expressing his disapproval, he was compliant.

" _Joseph_?" Said the rhythmic undulations of the slender figure sitting in the chair in the centre. "Anything you'd like to add?" Stalin's body quivered and the hairs on his arms rose to attention. Daddy was calling.   
"Well, I'd previously advocated for the destruction of Germany, but you made a great point, Harry" Stalin responded. Various Russian associated started to speculate behind Stalin, they were perplexed at Stalin's monologue. Vladimir, his aide, tapped his shoulder with urgency. "Joseph! What are you doing?"   
"Pleasing my man", Joseph smiled back at Vladimir, nonchalant and desolate of any qualms. Stalin knew very well that what he propounded was false, it seemed as if Truman's indirect seduction had indoctrinated Stalin into the capitalist ideology. The speculations and countless whispers formed a wave of universal voices, all ignored by Stalin. He raised his chin, running his fingers through the Stalin's grad bristles of short hairs that comprised of stubble. Thoughtfully, he glared at Truman, licking the centre of his top lip with his large-in-width tongue. Truman met Stalin's eyes and in response looked down at the conference papers in dismissal. Yet again, the rhythmic patterns of Truman's fingers continued, and Stalin resumed his watchful eye.

Attlee began speaking again, but his monotonous murmurs were rendered imperceptible by conversations exchanged by Stalin's and Truman's sides. "Is anyone listening?" He questioned the room but his opinions were acknowledged.

Truman turned the side of his head towards one of his close advisors, he began talking with indistinct words. Truman's jaw was impeccable, a carved calcium carbonate jaw, possibly belonging to yet another Greek God sculpture. Truman withdrew from the conversation by deviating from his ingrained position, and facing the direction of Stalin. His reflective, turquoise spherical eyes saintly piercing Stalin's. However, Stalin was conflicted with his contrasting emotions. He wasn't adamant whether Truman was being sincere or disingenuous, to cause hostility between their already polarised ideologies.

Stalin required a liberation of the intoxicating thoughts roaming his mind. They were jeopardising Stalin's position at the conference. The thoughts that been a distraction for his true aims for the Potsdam Conference. He was required to represent the Soviet Union as opposed to what he was actually doing; sexually fantasising about a sixty-one-year-old man with an opposing doctrine to that of the Soviet Union. And so Stalin stood from his righteous cushioned chair and notified people of his ordeal to peruse. In his viscous native tongue, she said, "I will have to be temporarily excused from this conference for I need to go to the nearest restroom." And gaily he strode out of the room, grasping the rounded copper handle of the oak door. Before his aide finally dismissed Stalin, Stalin slowly turned his head, and met the eyes of Truman, whom he'd hoped would meet his eyes in return. No eye contact was initiated and Stalin left the room.


	5. Harry’s Games

Stalin leaves the room, in utter despair. He cups his hands and places them upon the two halves of his face. He sighs, exhaling for a refuse amount of time. He limped towards the bathroom, not out of physical discomfort but out of a momentary paralysis from his densely compacted emotions consuming his body entirely. He was assisted by his close associates and again, his aide Vladimir, whom he treasured dearly. Vladimir held a roll of beige toilet paper, with an exemplary amount of softness for a man of Stalin's great status. But of course, Stalin would be cleansing his own anus with the touch of the soft toilet paper. Stalin had dignity and didn't dare to diminish his moral standards (though his role in the Russian society is contrary to that).

As Stalin reached the polished white door, Vladimir raised his Simonov AVS-36 and entered the restroom. He shouts something in Russian, the walls make his voice indistinct so Stalin was unable to decipher exactly what Vladimir says. Vladimir shoots the ceiling, all while Stalin and the others are positioned outside of the restroom. Half a dozen men, women and children come flooding out of the room, squealing like pigs before slaughter while Vladimir chases them out. "You could've just asked them to leave the room," Stalin said, for once appearing justified and rational with his choice of opinions.  
"What was that?" Vladimir inquired. Advancing closer towards Stalin. "Why are you... so American lately?" Vladimir rose his Simonov AVS-36 one more time, pointing it at Stalin's chest. He frowned; positioning his weapon on the floor. "You've grown to like the capitalists!" Vladimir exclaimed escorting himself away from the location. Stalin was mildly entertained by Vladimir's fatuous tantrum and so didn't act on his desires to order for his execution. Those damned eyes of Truman had made Stalin soft, somewhat malleable now.

Stalin entered the restroom, the floor was covered with open packets of miscellaneous German products, left behind in the panic evoked by Vladimir. Stalin prodded the objects with the tips of his wing tip shoes, avoiding any possible physical contact with the impurities. Stalin positioned himself in front of a mirror yielding a synthetic gold-crested coating; laying his face flat on the serrated edge. "Listen here, Joseph. This is no time for your homosexual desires to overcome your domineering character." Stalin belted to himself, exhaling with premeditated caution. He met his own eyes in the reflective surface and nodded to himself, providing the needed confidence required to accost his feared concerns.

"Joseph! We must return to the conference." Vladimir shouted outside, swinging the creaking door open with his asperous hand tentacles. Stalin walked towards the door, sighing and shaking his head as the door closed behind him. "What now?" Vladimir interrogated Stalin. "Stop dwelling over your capitalist pig of a boyfriend and adhere to your true intentions of the damned Conference!" As much as Stalin resented Vladimir's demands, he knew Vladimir was right. He should go back to adhering to his true aims.

Stalin came closer to the conference room's door but was hesitant to grasp his hands upon the handle when he heard the internal elevated noises within the room. The conference was fine before he'd left, what in the Soviet Union could've happened in that amount of time? Stalin looked at Vladimir, cautious of his actions to come. Vladimir indirectly tyrannised Stalin, underestimating Stalin's strengths. He grabbed the door handle and swung the door open, dictating Stalin to enter by his command. "I'll have you executed by noon," Stalin murmured under his cold breath while reluctantly advanced into the room.

"You can't _possibly_ justify an atomic bomb, Mr. Truman!" Attlee fumed. It was apparent that Clement Attlee was verbally belabouring Stalin's beloved crush. Stalin couldn't act on his inner most desires of belabouring Attlee as he needed to search for justification in the behalf of Attlee. "Do you realise how many lives that will end? Do you not care about those innocent lives off countless Japanese citizens?"  
"What you are forgetting, Attlee, is that my atomic bomb will actually bring an _end_ to the war plaguing our world. Truman explained, piercing Attlee's eyes with his intense gaze. Stalin saw the possibly erotic gaze emitted by Truman and decided it was time to interject, " _Relax_ , everyone. I'm sure you all have your own reasoning’s for dropping that marvellous destructive bomb." Stalin, for once, sat on the fence. He wanted to be neutral, neither for or against Truman's or Attlee's agendas.

"Wait there a moment, Joseph. Don't you agree that it will be justified? The - bomb of course." Truman questioned Stalin. Stalin froze, unsure of the security of his neutrality.   
"Y-Yes, Harry", Stalin coughs, "Mr. Truman, you are the most justified man of this discussion."   
"Good." Truman smiles, folding his right leg over his left. Stalin's stomach was put to ease, he'd successfully obtained the validation of Harry Truman. The possibility of liquified faecal matter had caused animosity within Stalin's internal organs, if he'd actually shat himself in the conference he would be deeply embarrassed.

Stalin was about to acquire some carbonated beverages from the bar when Truman interjected, "But, Mr. Stalin. We _cannot_ ignore the vices occurring domestically can we?"  
Stalin was overcome by bewilderment, beyond confusion. Why was Harry all-of-a-sudden addressing Stalin formally? Was their close connected false and devoid of authenticity?   
Stalin nervously chuckled to himself, "I am sorry, Harry, but I don't understand what you're insinuating", he poured himself a tangy blend of Khortytsa Platinum vodka into a shot glass and consumed it within seconds. Stalin felt a burning sensation within his throat, he knew the alcohol was effective.   
"Don't ignore what is obvious here, Joseph. You've violated multiple human rights laws. You're a criminal." Truman solemnly addressed Stalin.   
Trembling, Stalin swallowed his guilt and opened his mouth in response. "Like we care about that! We know about your sins, Joseph, don't look so scared", Truman sniggered to himself. Stalin with little confidence, smiled at Truman. Resting his face in disturbance.

Stalin became disorientated by Harry Truman's relentless mind games. It was driving Stalin to the brink of insanity.


	6. Sea Food

The conference was resumed to its prior state of equilibrium, but that wasn't completed feasibly. Multiple neutral parties in the discussion spent their time calming the room's heightened atmosphere with their extended attempts of distributing oysters and shrimps to tranquillise brewing tensions. The moderately attractive servants set about this task with their metallic discs utilised for the purpose of handing the three leaders prolific sea food. One of the German twink servants handed an oyster shell to Stalin. Stalin gazed his eyes upon the spherical, perfectly rounded cluster of flesh attached to the twink servant's rectum. However, Stalin's preferences were narrowed, though he did admire a youthful vessel, an elderly, emaciated vessel was what stimulated his natural bodily processes profusely. The oyster however, had no admirable attributes that would coax Stalin into the consumption of alleged irresistible foods.

An oyster was slightly appealing to Stalin - within a dark crevasse of doom inhabited in his brain - but he was obliged to refuse the generous offer of an oyster as he had no reason to obtain an impure scent within his oral cavity. If Stalin was fortunate, his and Harry Truman's tongues would interlock and conjoin to form a sea of flesh prone to an elevated sense of taste, the Prometheus of all living and deceased tongues to dominate over all other tongues. A fountain of knowledge retained into one singular, conjoined tongue. A source of knowledge from the tree of knowledge. The garden of Eden provided the perfect apple of knowledge for the mortals in the conference.

Truman, however, happily accepted the oyster shell from the German twink servant wandering around the large rounded table positioned at the centre of the room. "This is one nice oyster." Truman cried, launching the intercontinental ballistic missile of a sea oyster into his mouth. The aroma of oysters diffused within Harry Truman's sector of the room, causing some of his associates to squint at the intense sea food smell.   
"Such a dominant _gentleman_ , even when consuming sea food." Stalin thought to himself, amusing himself with the entertainment of interlocking his two thumbs, both laying on his lap. Clement Attlee didn't accept the invitation of an oyster not did he accept a shrimp, the fatuous bald man struck again. "I am on a diet so I won't be exceeding my daily calorie intake," Attlee irrelevantly added his own subjective experiences on the matter of sea food. This infuriated Stalin. An indescribable sensation of moral revulsion arising within Stalin, it could've easily been mistaken for his occasional irritable bowels. Attlee's irritable character would've endured his liquified Stalin's diarrhoea on a good day.

Once all of the oysters and shrimps had been entirely digested by the gullets of the attendants, the conference commenced again. The real issues were to be discussed for the remaining time. The rest of the conference was a blur for Stalin, he hadn't been concentrating on the matters-at-hand required for the sophisticated conference. Others in the room would occasionally question Stalin by simply calling out, "Joseph!" Or "Mr. Stalin!" Genuine concerns were surfaced by the Russian, American and British acquaintances of Stalin. He was growing in negative popularity in the conference for he was notably 'zoning out' whenever Harry Truman would utter polysyllabic sounds constructing long and heavy monologues.


	7. Capitalist Temptations

The room promptly became less densely populated within ten minutes of the termination of the conference. The alarmed voices of British associates of Clement Attlee whispering to each other, conspiring against the Russian sectors of the room. The American associates of Harry Truman dissipated into their own established sectors, conversing about insignificant topics. One man was talking about the numerous German prostitutes he'd encountered during his stay at Potsdam, he mentioned his wife who was caring for his four children at home, yet the man didn't seem to care about their feelings.

Everyone left the room. All but Josef and Harry, who had stayed behind to collect the remainders of their possessions. Stalin was attentive to his own actions, cautiously obtaining his pencil to appear light-handed, he wanted to present himself as a submissive figure to Truman. Stalin was aware of his abnormal manor, but he didn't alter his actions in any way.   
Truman brushed passed Stalin's shoulder, Stalin's shoulder hadn't even recovered from Truman's arm grab earlier on, the brief collision of Truman's and Stalin's shoulders just intensified Stalin's bicep contractions. "I'm sorry about that, Joseph." Truman apologised, but there was no requirement for an apology on behalf of Truman. Stalin took that arm collision as a divine gift from God, an priceless and seemingly irreplaceable gift.   
Stalin's external reproductive organ was practically throbbing with an immense erotic desire each time Truman passed his side to grab yet another one of his American possessions. His heart rate increasing with every view of Truman's bulge forming around his crotch region. Truman's youthful oval-shaped treasure chest attached to his archaic elderly body influenced the production of salivary substances within Stalin's mouth.

Truman had finally collected all of his possessions and placed them into a wooden cart. For Stalin, it had felt like hours had passed in the conference room but in reality, it'd only been a few minutes. Truman headed to the door, cradling his wooden cart in his toned arms. He allocated his possessions to the chairs mounted next to door, single-handedly he positioned his fingers upon the copper handle and compressed. Instead of closing the oak door - as expected -, Truman ravenously slammed the door shut. The room fell silent, all sound excluded from the room was induced by the abrupt slam of the door. Truman twisted his neck slightly to face Stalin, he grinned with large intent. Truman traced his fingers across the bricked wall, feeling for anything that remotely resembled a light-switch. Truman successfully tracked the light-switch and pressed down with his wrinkled fingers. He reached into his inner blazer pocket and revealed a box of matches, he dragged the match across the side of the box and the flame ignited. From his left exterior pocket, he yielded two rather long candles, one of which Stalin had initially mistaken for a penis. Truman positioned the ignited match towards one of the candles and repeated this with the other candle. He placed the two long ignited cylindrical objects onto the centre table, providing the room with a soft and natural illumination, as opposed to the harsh synthetic lights of the conference room.

Stalin was in awe at the sight of Truman advancing towards him, unbuttoning his striped shirt, button by button. Removing his two shoes with ease, flinging them indiscriminately towards no specified location. They fell, enhancing the silence of the room, two thuds of leather dropping like the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan.

Truman reached the final button of his shirt and gently weaved the button out of the cotton configuration. He opened his shirt, allowing the short sleeves to glide down his hairless arms. Two pepperoni-sized nipples were on full display for Stalin. Stalin was without logical words, he had nothing to propound at that very moment. Truman came closer, with each small, prolonged step. He placed his hand upon Stalin's, which was stabilised on his knee. He extended Stalin's index finger and brought it towards his chest, guiding the finger through the forest of hairs consuming the centre of Truman's chest and then on a journey around the perimeter of his two uneven circular discs. "You weren’t expecting this were you, Joseph?" Truman questioned while simultaneously guiding Stalin's index finger to enter Truman's closed mouth. Truman wrapped his moist tongue around the surface of Stalin's index finger and proceeded to insert and remove the finger multiple times to resemble the process of sexual penetration. Stalin remained senseless, shock overcoming his entire body, slightly numbing the surface of his skin.

Truman released Stalin's finger from his prolonged tongue stimulations. He spread his grey polyester trousers with the perfect centre fold and squatted before Stalin's lap. By this time, Stalin had successfully obtained an erection; signifying his extreme desire to copulate with Harry Truman. Truman noticed the overt display of Stalin's arousal and it came by no surprise. "What do we have here, Joe?" Truman rejoiced, lowering his head towards Stalin's. Stalin was bewildered by the colloquial form of his name, Joe, a name with one single syllable. It takes one syllable to prevail the heavenly illumination of divine afflatus. Stalin still was incapable of composing himself, he began to slightly hyperventilate. Before the hyperventilation could become worsened, Truman raised his hand above Stalin's forehead as Stalin adhered his protruding eyes upon Truman's moving fingers. Truman took his thumb and rested it on Stalin's left temple, he then rested the thumb firmly in a stable position, making it less volatile. Truman leaned in closer towards Stalin's face, "I've seen the way you looked at me today," Truman murmured in his coarse and masculine tone, "You're very demanding. You want war reparations to the Soviet Union from your zone of occupation in Germany, you also discussed the need to obtain ten percent of the industrial capacity of the western zones, which you've already said to be unnecessary for the German peace economy, should be transferred to the Soviet Union within two years." Truman ranted, clearly distressed, but yet again, the many mind games of Harry Truman made it arduous to decipher Truman's genuine feelings.

"I-I am doing what is best for the Soviet Union." Stalin managed to articulate. He hardened his gaze and continued, "And I know that you strongly disagree with me, Harry. Your desire to rebuild Germany back to his prosperous state does concern me but that minimal factor shouldn't interfere with us on a personal level." Suddenly overcome by an impulse of confidence, Stalin rose from his restrained position and grabbed Truman's waist, flinging him into the chair he was once sitting on.

Stalin detached his blazer from his three-piece suit and unbuttoned the top button of his long-sleeved shirt. He thrusts his pelvis towards Truman's crotch and teases his erupting bulge with a gentle caressing above the surface of Truman's grey polyester trousers.

Truman familiarises himself with the possibility of domination.


	8. The Berlin Blockade

Stalin reached into the left pocket of his blazer and produced a bottle of suntan lotion, which was particularly unusual for a man to have in a winter climate and being from a country with extreme winters. Perhaps Stalin was being excessively cautious with his tender skin, skin prone to sunburn and ultraviolet rays.

Truman stared in awe at the bottle of suntan lotion, curious of its intended purpose. Stalin knew well what the purpose of the suntan lotion was, it was intended to be used as lubrication, to ease Stalin’s passage into Truman. It wasn't the most effective form of lubrication but at dire times as these, Stalin needed to be resourceful and he deemed the bottle of suntan lotion as quintessential for his prearranged sexual contact.

Stalin compressed the cylindrical sides of the bottle of suntan lotion and formed a pile of reasonably viscous suntan lotion onto his hands, he began to rub his hands together to distribute the concentration of suntan lotion equally, just like the social economy of the Soviet Union. Once Stalin had coated his hands with a substantial layer of suntan lotion he spread his legs slightly and clasped his hands together firmly, releasing a quiet but unexpected noise of collision between two pieces of flesh.

"Remove those grey polyester trousers." Stalin said. Truman grasping his hands onto the corner of the round table, Truman does just that and removed his grey polyester trousers. Truman is entirely naked, stripped and deprived of all his materialistic yuppie associated items, conventional for a prosperous capitalist man. Staring at himself through the smooth and reflective surface of the table, Stalin kneels behind him. He kisses and then softly bites Truman's behind, making him exert a foreign modulation of Truman's usual sounds. Stalin stands and stares at Truman once more time in the reflective surface of the table. He attempts to remain stable, rejecting his own natural inclination to cover himself with modesty and instead consenting to the hyperborean cold air amalgamating his loosely flapping pepperoni nipples. Leaning down Stalin kisses Truman’s narrow neck and Truman adjusts the position of his head to one side to provide Stalin with easier access to the compound of Truman’s body. Hooking his thumb into Truman’s grey polyester trousers, Stalin slowly slides the trousers down Stalin’s legs, sinking down behind him as he pulls them and Truman’s underwear to the floor.

"Bend over, Harry." Stalin demanded, and Truman complied without hesitation. As Truman bent over the cushioned chair tucked into the circular table of the room, Stalin placed his hands onto his hind quarters, spreading the suntan lotion around Truman's cheeks. Carefully distributing the suntan lotion to all sides of Truman’s evenly coated rectum. Stalin’s cold hands embarked on a journey of sexual satiation, beginning at Truman’s digestive tract’s end and ending at his digestive tract’s beginning. He spreads his hand across Truman’s belly. “Feel how large those nipples are.” Stalin holds Truman’s hands so that they outline the circumference of his abnormally large nipples. He strokes Truman’s nipples with his thumb over and over, causing a few flakes of eroded skin to fall from Truman’s areola. With the suntan lotion still smothered on Truman’s rectum, Stalin had not forgotten about this. Stalin firmly squeezed Truman’s rectum and exhales out of exhaustion. The copulation hadn’t even been initiated and Stalin was already experiencing signs of fatigue.

Truman, as attentive as he is, once again noticed Stalin’s difficulty of resuming Truman’s rectal arousal. “I’ll take over, Baby.” Truman declared, raising his rectum upwards in a promiscuous way and placing his hands upon Stalin’s shoulders, instructing Stalin to become seated. Truman picked up the suntan lotion that Stalin deposited on the floor and held in it in hands, checking the sun protective factor value to ensure peak protection for his lover. Truman begins small, biting Stalin’s excess skin located by his belly region. Moving down Stalin’s body, Truman felt for Stalin’s penetrative instrument through the endless extensions of his skin prevailing. Soft small licks against Stalin’s two shrivelled reproductive spheres. Once, twice, three times, again and again, repeatedly until finally, that’s it. Stalin can take no more and he comes intensely, loudly, sagging weakly and crying for more. Truman’s arms wrap around Stalin and cradles him as his legs liquify into a boneless heap of warm flesh. Stalin’s temporary paralysis did not deter Truman, Truman was on a mission. Stalin’s climax was sensational but Truman was determined to achieve greatness.

Truman turned his neck left and then right, placing his hands on his shoulder, he twisted again. His bones cracked, the old man with the extremely high libido was loosened and his joints lubricated. Stalin feels weak, but he does as Truman asked as Truman curls his legs around Stalin’s hips and positions himself beneath Stalin. With one thrust, he’s inside him and he cries out again, revealing extreme pleasure, all while listening closely to the muffled whispers Truman moans through his ear. “This is the Berlin Blockade,” Truman declared while thrusting his erect instrument into the anal cavity of Stalin, Truman pounded Stalin’s behind and pinned him onto the round table’s surface. Tying a knot into his silk tie wrapped around Stalin’s bound wrists. “There’s no more entry,” Truman said breathless and failing to gain his speech “you’ve restricted all passages via road and rail that causes a hindrance of economic production in my sector of Berlin.” Truman exclaims, inhaling slowly and relieving his worn-out instrument. Stalin yelps a screech of pleasure, practically yearning for Truman to continue his copulation. “Please,” Stalin pleaded, “Fuck me one more time. You’ve refused to withdraw your Marshall plan from my sector of Berlin, regardless of my opposition and I’m now threatening nuclear devastation!”   
Truman remained breathless, the asthmatic sixty-one-year-old was incapable of keeping up with Stalin. “ _Oh_ , come on! I’m going to enact the communist alternative of The Marshall Plan: Comecon and I’m going to distribu-” Stalin was abruptly restricted of his words by Truman’s physical interjection.

Truman tossed Stalin over like a Soviet sausage in a pan, revealing Stalin’s coated-with-suntan-lotion rectum. Truman took ten seconds to observe the natural beauty of Stalin’s round pillows, he wanted to remember what they looked like before he planned on dismantling and mutilating Stalin’s anus beyond recognition. He observed it, took mental notes and calculated the exact curvature of the ass. Truman then proceeded to invade Stalin’s anal cavity, the invasion resembled that of the soviet soldiers seizing control of the Nazis occupying Germany, especially the situation in the führer bunker. Truman lightly placed his discoloured lips on the entrance of Stalin’s ass and pressed them together, a light kiss for a sensitive anus. Stalin’s face was pressed up against the table another time, Truman almost crushing Truman’s cheek bones with his mighty strength. Insertion after insertion, Truman’s battered instrument was continuously dissolving the walls of Stalin’s faecal passage. Truman began to eventually slow down. Giving himself and Stalin a twenty second break in between fucking sessions. Breathless once more, Truman sat on the chair, Stalin still mounted over the table ready for sexual satisfaction. Truman became slouched and informal, Stalin took this as a sign of Truman’s withdrawal from their sexual relations. But being the needy Soviet that he was, Stalin still wasn’t finished. He took pity on Truman and decided that sodomy wasn’t the answer, instead oral copulation would be more feasible.

Stalin kneeled by Truman’s instrument, stroking it lightly with his forefinger and thumb endlessly. Stalin drew Truman’s dick closer to his face. Stalin looked at the head of Truman’s instrument while the head of Truman’s instrument tingled unbearably, induced by the intense anal penetration. It didn’t seem as though the suntan lotion was effective in lubricating the inside of Stalin’s anal cavity.

Stalin kept his eye adhered to the head of Truman’s dick, analysing it for any imperfections he should know of. Stalin positioned the tip of his large tongue on the centre of Truman’s head of the penis. Stalin licked downwards the dick’s shaft, it was a short journey for his tongue since Truman’s penetrative instrument was no longer formally erect as it had originally been. Stalin finally arranged his mouth to submerge the entirety of Truman’s dick. Stalin’s tongue wrapped around the middle just as Truman wrapped Stalin’s index finger with his tongue.

Truman exerts an alienated modulation of a verbal utterance, moaning uncontrollably from the chair.


	9. The Big Three

Stalin, face down in the dense vegetation of Truman's pubic hairs, resurfaced for air, desperate for an inhalation is air that wasn't previously exhaled carbon dioxide. Four seconds. Four seconds was all that Stalin required to continue his exploitation of Truman's genital forestry. Slow breaths, and Stalin was back to his Christopher Columbus of an exploration. Stalin began to lack logical thought; his brain was saturated with thoughts of a rather sexual nature. Regardless of Truman's flaccid dick, Stalin was adamant that he would be capable if inducing an erection, a certain level of arrogance for a man with countless faulted characteristics and so called 'reputable achievements'. The labour-intensive task of reviving the seemingly decayed and deceased penetrative piece of flesh attached to the lifeless body of Harry Truman, became arduous within a limited amount of time. Stalin yanked the dick, pulling it up and down hopelessly, expecting it to raise accord and to p reform as a youthful dick would, but still there was no response from it. Regardless of the dick's lack of apparent response towards Stalin's efforts, Stalin continued the prolonged task by moving his clenched fisted hands along the dick's shaft, altering the position of the uncircumcised foreskin with it. Stalin could feel his foreskin’s monumental vulnerability and so he eased his efforts of causing an erection. Safety took precedence over sexual arousal, Harry Truman's security of genitalia was prioritised.

The door creaked open and the penetrating artificial lights covered all visible surfaces in the conference room. Standing at the door was Clement Attlee. He'd come to collect his pen that he'd unfortunately left behind on his chair, the exact chair that Harry Truman's naked body was sitting on. Stalin heard the door open and turned his head to the direction of the noise, immediately realising that Clement Attlee was standing beside the door, his mouth agape at the scene he had just intruded on. "I-erm," Attlee paused, "Just came to collect my limited edition Parker fountain pen with the silver tip that I left on my-that chair." He said, with a tone that would suggest he's slightly discomforted.

All Attlee could see was the dictator of the Soviet Union kneeling on the floor with ejaculate covering the opening of his mouth. Harry Truman's body spread across Attlee's chair, with his eyes shut, not sentient. Stalin chuckled nervously, "You may be slightly confused," Stalin said to Attlee, "I mean, I was looking for my section of the conference papers and he ju-" Stalin was interrupted by the unexpected awakening of Harry Truman. Harry's dick resurfaced at the exact moment he saw Clement Attlee leaning upon the oak door's frame. Stalin lowered his eyes towards Truman's crotch region, he saw Truman's dick become erect and recharged. "I'll just come back later I guess." Attlee suggested, lowering his head in shame, disbanding himself from the door's frame.  
"Wait, Clement!" Truman shouted, propping himself back onto the chair, "What you've seen here... It's inexplicably bad, immoral beyond explanation."  
"No, Mr. Truman. I've never really viewed homosexuality as abominable," Attlee responded, "I could say that I _do_ occasionally feel a sexual attraction towards the same sex as myself." Attlee smiled at Truman, Truman returns the smile with a wink and a diabolical curl of his chapped lips.

Stalin placed his sad puppy eyes onto Truman's, Truman didn't meet Stalin's eyes in response. Stalin was blatantly overcome by jealousy by the newly-established close covalent bond between Attlee and Truman. Stalin's lips trembled as if he were about to cry. Overtly expressing his own concerns with Attlee's presence in the room seemed petty to Stalin and so he kept his peace and didn't surface his concerns in fear of potentially arousing disruption during the erotic scenario.

Again, Truman winked directly at Clement Attlee, "Come here." Truman whispered erotically while bending his index finger towards himself. "Come here and join in." Truman appealed once more, this time extending his forearm towards Attlee. Attlee accepted the ambiguous invitation by, without any elaboration, propelling his broad-shouldered, double breasted cuffed jacket onto the floor that comprised of puddles of viscous suntan lotion, sprawled across the floor. Stalin smiled with reluctance, turning his back to Truman and rolling his eyes behind him.

Attlee came closer, unbuttoning his shirt, the muscles of his stomach tightened involuntarily as he stepped out of his burnt umber corduroy trousers another. A drop of suntan lotion on his upper arm. Slightly moist. A beige folded pocket square on the floor remained immobile. A simple colour, in contrast to the dark colours of his suit, a hidden but unintended message. It presents him as being the metaphorical antonym to his synonyms. His nipples wide apart and small, unlike Truman's pepperoni nipples. On his left elbow was a mole half covered by a strap of Attlee's suspenders. Once Attlee's corduroy trousers slipped down his long-toned leg biceps, Truman and Stalin could see the way his pelvic bones stretched the material clear of the skin, the deep curve of his waist, his startling whiteness and the extraordinary abdominals forming a distinct division of six sectors.

After an excruciating amount of time, Attlee eventually reached Truman, gently tracing his finger across Truman's outer arm seductively. Attlee put his hands on Truman's neck, jolting the neck towards his own face. He caressed Truman's forehead then kissed its centre.  
Stalin got up from his kneeling position, slightly irate, and sat himself on Truman's lap, finally gaining Truman's attention. Truman smirked at Stalin's outrageous attempts and locked eyes with Stalin, this was shortly interrupted as Attlee started to tenderly fondle Truman's earlobes with his front incisors. "West is best", Attlee said, "West is best", Attlee repeated into Truman's ear, quiet enough so that Stalin couldn't hear it. What Attlee had meant by his discreet whisper was that the Western Hemisphere was superior to Stalin and his Eastern European bloc. The deceptive snake-like Clement Attlee was conspiring against Stalin, and Stalin was correct about him, despite Truman and Stalin’s associates’ ignorance. Curling his tongue around the strands of Truman’s golden locks, Attlee removed his under garments and exhibited his tremendous, large in size and general girth, dick. Truman averted his eyes from Stalin’s and onto Attlee’s dick, he was overcome by sheer disturbance combined with arousal, Truman was conflicted with varying emotions. It was huge, the titanic of all penises was in front of Truman. Truman reached out to touch it as he wasn’t sure if the dick was legitimately in-front of him. “How?” He questioned Attlee’s penis directly, genuinely perplexed at the monstrosity before his very eyes. Attlee put his index finger onto Truman’s lips, silencing him. “Shh”, Attlee hushed Truman.

Stalin became increasingly tense, his muscles contracting in opposition. Stalin knew at heart that he’d have to overpower Attlee’s efforts in order to be Truman’s favoured man. Stalin removed his Soviet hat, the hat that he’d been wearing throughout the sex session, and placed it on Truman’s head. “Here you are, my Siberian ice-cream.” Stalin whined, forcing a disingenuous smile to surface on his face. Stalin’s efforts were dismissed once more, igniting the flame within Stalin.


	10. Fury Within

Stalin took Truman's turgid instrument and inserted it into his anal cavity, settling himself down onto Truman's dick, easing the passage of insertion. Truman groaned, squeezing Stalin's hand while doing so, Truman was still looking at Attlee's astounding abdominal muscles. Stalin raised his hind quarters, letting out a silent squeal of delight.   
Attlee dragged Stalin's former conference chair and positioned it beside Truman's legs. Attlee elevated himself upon the chair by standing on it, he placed his dick into the open mouth of Truman. "Here's your Marshall Plan," Attlee seductively murmured, "Thirteen billion dollars’ worth of Marshall Aid being fed into that godly mouth of yours." Attlee excavated Truman's mouth by ploughing his monstrous penis inside it, Truman naturally gagged at Attlee's attempt of deep-throating.

Both the beginning and the end of Truman's body were entirely filled with the sexual organs of powerful, prolific leaders.

Stalin kept his vigilant eye on Attlee's impressive titanic instrument, scolding the sight of it. Stalin closed his eyes, faithful that the action would distract him from Attlee's irritable face in the now-turned polygamous orgy. However, Stalin's efforts were overpowered, Attlee began wailing louder than Truman had ever wailed. Stalin's eyes widened and his protruding eyes pierced Attlee's.

Stalin was incapable of withstanding any more of the once heavenly now turned diabolical sexual relations. Stalin was driven to his utmost limit. He withdrew Truman's dick from his anal cavity, no seminal fluids assisting the abrupt withdrawal. Harry hadn't even realised that Stalin had adjusted his sexual position, continuing to moan all while Attlee penetrated Truman's rather small mouth. Stalin examined the room, overturning the heap of dishevelled conference papers laying at the at the centre of the rounded table. Stalin's eyes fall on a metallic hole punch, he searched the surface of the hole punch for his own cynical reassurance that nothing contaminated would come in contact with his honourable hands.   
Stalin hoisted the hole punch onto his hands and began to walk up to Attlee and Truman, gradually increasing his pace until eventually, Stalin found himself sprinting directly towards Clement Attlee. Stalin tugged the hair surrounding Attlee's receding hairline and pulled Attlee towards the floor. His Soviet foot on Attlee's chest. With Stalin's right dominant hand, he swung the hole punch at Attlee's forehead, causing a trail of viscous crimson liquid to form atop of Attlee's left brow. Attlee resisted Stalin's assault, kicking at Stalin's knees eagerly. "Stop! Joseph Ple-" Attlee cries. Stalin hurled the hole punch towards his forehead again and again, more blood was pouring from the enlarged wound. Stalin bludgeoned the hole punch relentlessly at Clement Attlee's mutilated face until Attlee finally stopped resisting, his once risen arms dropping to the floor. Attlee's face was unrecognisable, appendages of flesh decompartmentalised and out of their designated positions.

Stalin rose from the ground, his hands covered in Attlee's blood. Stalin wiped his hands on Attlee's clean trousers, cringing at the sight of his unclean hands. He sighed, clasping his hands together, "Get the tarp." Stalin commanded Truman, Truman's face desolate of contentment, only repugnance prevailing. His eyes motionless, staring at the insensate corpse of Clement Attlee.

Clement Attlee on the floor was without any traces of life. Lifeless. His dark brown hair was scattered in multiple places, stained with dried blood; falu red. His emerald green eyes were wide open, but his jade irises held a sudden sadness. His body was slumped over, half-sitting, half-laying on the ground. Truman was speechless, trauma took possession of all cogent words. Stalin re-buttoned his shirt and blazer, gliding his trousers onto his legs and finally put on his fur Soviet hat. Stalin told a hold of Truman's hands, gripping onto them tightly. "Do you think this is a _fucking_ _game_ , Harry?" Stalin warned Truman. "You'll understand why I did it later, grab that tarp and help me remove his body." Truman reluctantly handed the conveniently placed tarp onto Attlee's corpse.

Stalin grabbed the tarp's sides, concealing all visible surfaces of Attlee's mutilated body. With his indomitable strength, Stalin hoisted the corpse onto his broad shoulders, briefly staggering slightly with the large mass upon his shoulders. Stalin rushed towards the door, nodding his head towards Truman to indicate that he required Truman's assistance, Truman followed.

"Look along the corridor to see if there's anyone here." Stalin told Truman. Stalin looked to his left and then to his right, searching for any abnormal sights he should be cautious about. "There's no one h-here." Truman stuttered, swallowing his accumulated saliva (this could've just been the excess sperm from Attlee). Stalin began to pace up the corridor with Truman following after him. The corridor was completely empty, as expected for two o'clock in the morning. Stalin opened the back exit of the conference hall and ran down the monumental concrete stairs. Fortunately, Stalin's assistant, Vladimir had left Stalin's vehicle unattended, allowing Stalin the freedom to travel whenever he pleased (despite security concerns). "Get the keys from my left blazer pocket,"Stalin commanded Truman. "And _wait_ -" he paused, kissing Truman's cheek. "You'll always be my Siberian ice-cream." Stalin laughed while depositing Clement Attlee's battered corpse into the back seat of his car. Truman didn't kiss him back, causing a minimal alarmed eruption within Stalin, "I did this for you, Harry. I sat on your _fucking_ face, for you!" Stalin yelled. Stalin grabbed Truman's wrist, raising it towards his face. "And this hand, _this_ _hand_. I allowed you to fist me with this hand." Stalin dropped Truman's hand, glaring at his weak attempt of turning away from Stalin's intense stare. Stalin sighed and continued to pack Attlee's corpse into the back of his vehicle, without the required assistance of Truman.

Stalin opened the door for Truman, even though Truman was an ungrateful man and didn't have gratitude. Truman limped into the vehicle, pushing his blood-soaked circular spectacles towards his nose. "This isn't right, Josef. Y-you killed him!" Truman cried. Stalin swung his hand across Truman's face. "That's why we're burying the body tonight, so that no one will know what we've done." Stalin explained, looking at himself in the rear-view mirror above him and Truman.   
"We? I never killed Clement. You bludgeoned him to death with that damned hole punch!" Truman said, interrupted again by the back of Stalin's hand.   
"Oh, I'm sorry, you little slut. While I was caring for you and pleasing you as a man would do to his lover, you accepted the invitation of Clement Attlee. Clement fucking Attlee, that irrelevant British cunt with the receding hairline." Stalin inhaled, "You knew that was going to hurt me but you did it anyway, because you're a whore. And a whore is what you'll always be." Stalin dictated, facing the upcoming road again. He'd not realised that he'd started the car's engine. Stalin regained his balance and motivation, focusing on the road, and the road only.


	11. Veil

Stalin and Truman didn't speak a word throughout the journey, the constant flapping of Attlee's mutilated flesh was enough to silence anyone _especially_ the dictator of the Soviet Union. Truman would occasionally whine as a puppy would, craving a sweet release from a world devoid of sympathy and remorse. But Stalin was attentive, he evaluated the surroundings passing them in the car, searching for a suitable area to dispose the corpse of Attlee. Stalin was ensuring that his new lover would be secure from the stigma attached to homosexuality and homicide, it was fundamental that Stalin would find an area adequate for a homicide cover-up. Stalin had driven for approximately two and a half hours, it was now four thirty o'clock in the morning and the sun was beginning to rise. The need for a suitable burial place became imperative. They were now in the German countryside, surrounded by forestry and seclusion. Stalin opened the door, pelting his foot at the door to his right. "Get out of the car, Harry." Stalin demanded Truman. Stalin stepped of the car and opened his back door where Attlee's body lay crucified in a contracted position. Stalin was struggling to remove the tarp from Attlee's mutilated corpse, tugging relentlessly at the sheet of plastic. "Truman!" Stalin shouted, looking through the window next to Truman. Truman sat on the chair, depressed, just as Attlee had pretended to be earlier on. Stalin pounded on the door's window vehemently, "Harry, Help me remove the tarp." Truman didn't respond. "Harry, if I have to repeat myself _again,_ I'll disembowel your children."   
Truman rattled the door's handle, desperate for it to open. He calmed himself, re-trying to open the car door but now with a state of temporary tranquillity drowning out his internal screams. Truman stepped out of Stalin's convertible and slammed the door shut. He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly, carefully composing his almost-Attlee-deteriorating state. Truman opened the door, he found flies swarming around Attlee's body.

One fly walked across Attlee's widened eyes, attracting its acquaintances to do so as well. Truman began to gag, just as he'd done when he deep-throated Attlee's preciously alive instrument. Stalin managed to remove the plastic tarp from Attlee's body, revealing his bludgeoned face. "Look what _you've_ done to him!" Truman cried. "His face."   
"His disgusting face, yes I do know that I bludgeoned his face with his own hole punch so please, stop reminding me." Stalin belted, covering Attlee's mutilated face with his Soviet fur hat. "You know what, Harry? You do it. Get that _fucking_ shovel and dig a hole." Truman was perplexed, a man of his current state would be incapable of committing murder let alone assisting the burial of a homicide orchestrated by the leader of the Soviet Union. Truman looked away from the faeces-stained corpse, he breathed heavily into his scarf to avoid the inhalation of toxic fumes being emitted from Clement Attlee’s corpse. "I thought so," Stalin scolded, underestimating Truman's vast capabilities. Stalin placed the corpse onto the ground below the car, taking out the shovel that was placed next to the body of Clement Attlee. Stalin carried Attlee's body towards an undetermined location, scanning the forestry for a soil-covered surface with tender texture, sufficient for an informal burial. A 'veil' for Stalin's crime of passion. Stalin propped the body onto a soiled surface, pacing the area surrounding the area surrounding it. Truman reluctantly handed over the wooden-handled shovel to Stalin's rough fingers, Stalin took ahold of Truman's coral wrists and constricted Truman's upper limb movement. "You know I'm doing this for you, so be enlightened." Stalin said, his face became submerged in solemnness and his darkness soon prevailed. "You're a _slut_ , Harry. If only you'd been loyal and hadn't been consumed by your infidelity. Stalin detached his tightened hand from Truman's wrist, grabbing the shovel instead. " _Fucking_ promiscuous whore." Stalin grunted under his vodka scented breath. He exerted pressure onto the shovel's iron head, breaking the surface of the malleable brown solution of soil and moisture, with minimal patches of green vegetation. Stalin dug and he dug until he'd reached a depth he deemed adequate for the burial of Attlee's corpse. Stalin automatically presumed that Truman's pusillanimous character would prevent Truman from positioning Attlee's mutilated cluster of flesh into the deep ditch he'd just dug for the past fifteen minutes. Stalin grounded at the laborious impact of depositing a mangled corpse into a self-dug grave, what usually happens on a conventional Saturday evening for the average German citizen post World War Two.

Stalin arched his back, clamouring at the sharp pain arising to the top of his spine. "Finish burying him." Stalin demanded Truman, Truman knew the consequences would be severe if he didn't comply with Stalin's demands. Truman took the shovel from Stalin's tense and hand and started to exert the same pressure onto the same iron head of the shovel, uplifting the brown sediment from its stationary heap on the surrounding vegetation. Truman adhered his eyes to his eye lids, restricting the car's front lights' illumination from entering his peripheral and centre view. Then Truman deposited the collected soil onto Clement Attlee's body, covering up the surface soil deposition by soil deposition, until his body was finally immersed in the moist brown soil of the German countryside.


	12. There’s Something About Stalin

Truman and Stalin remained in total silence, disdain flooding their passage of words. They were both aware of what had just happened. An erotic gay orgy transformed into a gruesome homicide - in one single day, and Stalin was nonchalant. The usually social and self-assured Harry Truman was entirely muted and silenced beyond explanation. Harry's political agendas were diminished, he'd no real aims for the Potsdam Conference. His ideal aim was to have sexual relations with Clement Attlee, not Joseph Stalin. When Truman saw the possibility of a gay sexual relation with a man, he took advantage of the chance, not realising that his decisions would later come to haunt him. "I only wanted my dick in Clement Attlee's buttocks," Truman pondered, "Instead I got the Soviet equivalent of The Armenian Genocide, which certainly kills the mood."

Stalin pulled the lever of the car, igniting the car's engine and jostling the black convertible forwards, causing a hysteria in Truman to emerge. Stalin spanked Truman's cheek, glaring at him with dismissal, turning his head to face the upcoming road again. "It will be fine." Stalin said reassuringly.   
"How are you so adapted to this situation, Joseph? This _isn't_ normal." Truman said with genuine concern. Stalin looked in the rear view mirror, forming something that somewhat resembled a devil's smile. "Love makes you do crazy things, and I am in love with you, Harry." Stalin said, putting his hand above Truman's, squeezing lightly. Stalin was slightly irritated by Truman's use of a formal name for himself, Joe was a name he treasured dearly. Truman wasn't sure if he'd be able to squeeze back, he was incapable of it. Truman was exposed to something ungodly, a new leaf turned and the side of Stalin's leaf was darker than any leaf he'd ever turned before. A man with dark intent, deplorable moral compass and injustices. Truman managed to force a smile, forcing his fingers to compress lightly on Stalin's hand. Truman looked at Stalin driving the convertible, Stalin obviously content and smiling at the thought of Harry Truman squeezing onto his hand. Truman noticed a patch of crimson red, slowly expanding across Stalin’s chest region, forming red branches reaching the outline of his diamond-hard nipples. It was Attlee's stained blood and Stalin didn't seem to realise the patch.

"What are you looking at, my Siberian ice-cream?" Stalin asked Truman, taking note of Truman staring at his chest. "Oh, _this_?" Stalin laughed, looking down at the gradually expanding patch of red, "the literal blood of my enemies."   
"Oh, right." Truman responded. There was something seriously wrong with Stalin, he'd brushed aside the murder of Clement Attlee without hesitation or contemplation. Clement Attlee's blood was on the edge of Joseph Stalin's shirt and no one else but Truman could see the insanity breeding within the sinister mind of Joseph Stalin.

Harry Truman was fixed into an irreversible paradox. He was sitting in a black convertible vehicle, after copulating with Josef Stalin and Clement Attlee in a homosexual orgy. After which Stalin had bludgeoned Clement Attlee with Attlee's own hole punch - Attlee was declined the right to die with dignity and instead given a death of a villainous traitor. Truman thought about notifying the authorities or even his associates but he had no device to message them with, even if he had a device, he wouldn't be able to message them with Stalin's dominant hand restricting Truman's movements. He shook his head in dismay, for he realised at that moment that he'd no way of his escaping the dictator of the Soviet Union's tight clasp. But there was a way, Truman soon came to realise. Truman only needed to deceive Stalin by complying with his demands and orders he requires Truman to do. A strenuous task for Truman, but it was Truman's only option.

The car jolted backwards, Stalin's fist dragging the car's lever with it. Stalin shouted something indistinct in Russian, "A fucking deer!" Stalin exclaimed, slamming the car's wheel with his fists. "I'm killing that fucking deer!" Stalin grabbed a hold of the car wheel and turned it left, to gain somewhat accurate precision to kill the passing creature. Truman gently placed his hand on top of Stalin's, "Don't do it, Joe." He whispered into his ear.   
"Joe." Stalin smiled at the colloquial term of his name utilised by Truman.   
"Don't do it for the sake of that passing deer. Do it for me and do it for our love." Truman pleaded to Stalin, forcing the same amount of forced compression onto Stalin's tense hand. Truman lowered his head towards Stalin's crotch, he unzipped the zip of Stalin's cotton trousers. Stalin already had a sizeable erection for just planning to plough into a deer with his car.

The trousers' opening widened and Truman placed his tongue upon Stalin's instrument, caressing it with the small mothers embedded within his tongue. Fortunately, the deer walked away, avoiding a gruesome end to its short-lived existence in the German countryside. Truman provided oral copulation for over twenty minutes, the minutes seemed like hours to Truman. The oral copulation had tired Truman's mouth greatly. Truman spread his mouth open in an attempt to relieve the cramp fermenting in his mouth. "Ahh." Stalin moaned, "You know how to change my mind, my Siberian ice-cream." He said, stretching his arm and putting it behind Truman's moist neck. Truman cringed at Stalin's initiation of another physical skin-to-skin contact. Stalin grabbed the wheel once again and the car's lever, igniting the engine. He began to drive and he drove until he reached his hotel, the entire journey to the hotel was comprised of Truman regulating Stalin's abrupt instances of sudden anger. Though the journey was enjoyable for Stalin, the constant requirement to provide oral sex to Josef Stalin was intolerable for Truman.   
Truman was sweaty all over, his hands moist with the excess white translucent liquid from Stalin's urethra, transferred during oral copulation in the mobile black convertible.


	13. Hotel Lobby Full of Soviets

Stalin stepped out of his black convertible that he'd conveniently parked outside of his reputable German hotel. Stalin decided that the best option for him and Truman was to skip the reservation at the restaurant Stalin had previously ensured a vacancy at. The trauma of burying Clement Attlee in the German countryside's forestry seemed to discomfort Truman. Stalin exited the black convertible before Truman, walking around the perimeter of the car towards Truman's side. Stalin, out of common courtesy, opened Truman's car door, like the gentleman his mother raised him to be. Truman took a hold of Stalin's hand, that was in-front of him, offering assistance. Stalin's hand assisted Truman's swift but prolonged exit from the car, a ceremonious scene of Stalin's abetment towards Truman was widely observed by the passing German civilians, some of whom were arousing speculations with each other. Such speculations and remarks included, "Is that Joseph Stalin holding the hand of Harry Truman?" And, "Those two men are being more affectionate than they ought to be." The speculations failed to aggravate Stalin, Stalin was appreciative of his and Harry Truman's overt display of controversial homosexual affection. He liked the thought of being controversial in the public eye. Truman let go of Stalin's rather tight clasp. "No, Harry. Let's come out, together. Hold my hand and let the world see the truth of our love." Stalin said, extending his forearm towards Truman's. Truman shook his head vehemently in opposition, "No, Joe. If we come out they'll ask questions about Attlee. Do you understand that we can't come out, well not now at least." Truman stammered, his eyes filled with paranoia, concentrating on the various miscellaneous objects surrounding them.   
"I g-guess you're right," Stalin said, lowering his head, slightly ashamed of himself for constructing such a drastic proposal.

The German civilians close-by continued their speculations, pointing towards Stalin and Truman as they both walked towards the entrance of Stalin's hotel. Stalin turned round to face the accumulating crowd, "I will have you all obliterated in a gas chamber if you continue this nonsense, fucking illiterate nazis." He whispered to himself, hoping that Truman would laugh alongside his joke."  
"Joe, please. Keep yourself together for tonight or they'll find out what you - we did tonight." Truman asserted his logic into the one-way conversation between Stalin and the growing crowd.

Stalin and Truman reached the hotel's front entrance, to greet them was another crowd of people. This time it was a crowd of Soviet associates and colleagues of Stalin. His associates came running towards Stalin, they seemed agitated by Stalin's arrival. " _Where_ have you been, Mr. Stalin? It's-" Vladimir looks to his wrist to take note of the current time, "four in the fucking morning, you fucking useless dictator." He shouted in the face of Stalin, switching his eyes from Stalin and Truman multiple times. The same anger that arose within Stalin during the orgy with Clement Attlee resurfaced. Stalin launched himself towards Vladimir, grabbing his neck and restricting Vladimir's airways. " _Don't_ call me a useless dictator in-front of my boyfriend!" Stalin continued to hold down firmly, making Vladimir turn an abnormal colour. Vladimir squinted his eyes, opening his mouth to obtain a sufficient amount of air. Stalin released his tight grip and walked back to Truman, "That is what happens when you disparage me, learn from this, Soviet scum." Stalin said as he set his eye on each of the surrounding Soviets circling Truman and Stalin.

"Let's go, my Siberian ice-cream. We're going to my suite." Stalin dictated, turning his head and smirking in the faces of his associates and especially Vladimir on the floor, who was still flailing helplessly and gasping for air. Stalin lowered one hand onto Truman's behind and splayed his hand across the small surface area of external flesh. Stalin took his other hand and wrapped it around Truman's neck. Truman could feel the following eyes of the Soviets judging each one of Truman's movements towards the spiral staircase presumably trailing up to Stalin's hotel suite. Truman noticed that one of the Soviets were holding a copy of the conference papers which was prohibited since there had only been one initial copy of the papers. Another Soviet held something that resembled a microphone attached to a confined box of wires, a listening device. Both of those Soviet men stayed glaring at Harry and Stalin, their eyes affixed to the Truman's behind which was covered by Stalin's hand. Truman wasn't sure if their judicious stares was a result of communist and capitalist cooperation or because they seemed to be over affection for roe alleged heterosexual males.

Truman knew prior to the conference that there would be Russian spies present (as warned by his associates), but seeing them right in-front of him made him concerned for the safety of those documents and concerned for the safety of himself in the hands of Josef Stalin. Was Truman being deceived as he was deceiving Stalin? That idea seemed unrealistic, Stalin had established a deep-rooted passion for Truman's body and his body alone, hence why he bludgeoned Clement Attlee to death with a hole punch.


	14. Stalin’s Suite

Stalin kept his hand on Truman's behind, guiding Truman's footsteps towards the beginning of the spiral staircase leading up to Stalin's hotel suite. Stalin grabbed firmly, bringing his lips closer to Truman's face, "I have a surprise for you, Harry. I cancelled that reservation at the reputable restaurant in Potsdam just for you."  
Truman quivered and a sharp sensation of cold Siberian exhaled carbon dioxide travelled up to the top of his spine. "Oh _how_ courteous of you," Truman dubiously said, closing his lips temporarily then opening them, "Joe. The conference was wonderful today," Truman says. "Thank you very much."  
"Actually, I'd say that the conference was quite mediocre, but you're welcome." Stalin shrugs. "Let's have a drink in my suite", Stalin says too casually even though Truman is critical of his approach it doesn't necessarily mean that Truman doesn't want to go to his hotel suite - but something stops Truman, a sudden intense feeling of dread and caution preventing him to move his legs further. Truman looks to his left, where a copied painting of the Mona Lisa is hanging over the red leather seating area full of Soviet men.   
"Do you want vodka?" Stalin asks.   
Truman pauses, confused. "What?"  
"Just a joke," He says, then, " _Listen_ , Harry. I want to watch my television show governed by the state committee for television and radio broadcasting so..." Stalin pauses, unsure as to why he's lingering. "What I'm suggesting is that you remain patient while I watch the final twenty minutes of my television programme."   
"No, that is completely fine." Truman smiles at Stalin, genuinely relieved as his efforts at deceiving Stalin are successful. Stalin links arms with Truman's arm, which was stationary at the side of his leg before Stalin decided to break its affixed position.

Like a husband assisting his wife, Stalin held Truman's hand throughout the unnecessarily prolonged walk up the spiral staircase. That alone attracted the attention of the Soviet associates of Stalin.

The first door to Stalin's right was his suite, the floor comprised of four individual rooms, all containing rather prolific Soviet men involved in the Stalin regime. Door number one was Stalin's door but Truman didn't have knowledge of the other suites and whom they belonged to. "This one." Stalin said, placing the key - which had just miraculously been put in Stalin's hand - into the door's lock. Twisting it until they heard the metallic collision of the key against the interior of the lock. "Sexy men first." Stalin said to Truman, winking at him as Truman proceeded to walk into the suite. That one wink from Stalin prevailed the many wrinkles of Stalin. One wink presented decades of mass genocide and domestic terrorism committed by Stalin and his regime.

In Stalin's overcoat pocket, Stalin fingered the alligator skin condom case he bought two months ago. He was considering utilising the three condoms compressed into the case for the night's next conference, but Stalin preferred going in raw as he'd done during that day. "Sexually transmitted diseases and infections?" He questioned himself "I'm immune!" But Stalin wasn't immune, he was as prone to sexually transmitted diseases and infections as any person would be if they had unprotected coitus. Stalin's egocentric character resurfaced in the midst of preparing himself for sexual relations with a man.

"Red wine?" Stalin asked Truman, holding a bottle of red wine in his hand. Truman thought he would arouse suspicions if he didn't accept the offer so he kindly took a glass of the wine. "Thank you, Joe. I do love red wine." Truman sipped on his red wine and reassuringly smiled at Stalin to show his contentment with the wine's flavour.

Truman saw the interior of Stalin's suite, though he'd seen luxurious rooms such as his at the White House back at home, he was in complete awe at Stalin's interior design. The skinned tiger on the floor, used as a rug, it's mouth open and displaying its pristine canines with their sharpened edges intended to tear apart the meat that would enter its oral canal. Perhaps the tiger was a symbol of Stalin's dedication to homosexuality and completely lacerating penile meat that was adhered to the bodies of sensuous men. The walls were striped red and beige across all walls and ceiling, quite disorienting if one was to perpetuate their gaze at the walls. "So, so do you like the room?" Stalin asked. Truman drew a straight line across one of the walls with his finger, feeling for the numerous textures embedded into the paper.   
"It's amazing, I love it." Truman said, evidently lying to himself. The walls disgusted Truman, they made him nauseous. The contrasting colours didn't harmonise with each other, creating a distinct division line across the entirety of the suite. A division that resembled a wall across Berlin that would advance in the future to come, but Truman didn't ruminate on that. He ruminated on the possibility of sending for help. Assistance from anyone other than a Soviet acquaintance of Stalin.

Stalin reached behind his large television set, switching on the electric to view his television show. "Wait in the bedroom while I watch the final twenty minutes of my state controlled television programme." Stalin ordered Truman, and Truman did just that. He took himself over to the organised bed that had a pair of two fur-covered handcuffs attached to the two willow bedposts at the side of Stalin's bed. Truman also took notice of the glass cabinet _full_ of riding crops above the framed picture of Vladimir Lenin. A perfectly arrayed formation of over a dozen riding crops. Stalin didn't ride horses or participate in dressage competitions. There was only one plausible use for those riding crops, and Truman was terrified of it. "He's going to whip me like a horse," he said under his breath, " a fucking horse."   
"I see that you've seen my collection of so-called toys I guess. Or whatever you'd like to call them." Stalin intruded on Truman's observation of the room. Stalin entered the room, wearing nothing but a woman's lingerie that clearly didn't fit his overweight figure. A red laced floral brassiere attached to black laced panties. Stalin sighed, clasping his hands together and rubbing them against each other. "Riding Crops? Check. Suntan lotion? Check. Dildo? Probably won't need it." Stalin evaluated the large dildo by his bedside, Truman was unsure as to why he hadn't noticed the tremendous object beforehand.

Stalin drops the dildo and walks up to Truman, who is still sitting on Stalin's bed. Stalin undresses Truman for him, as Truman is dubious to have sexual relations with the man.

He moves suddenly so that his hand is cupping Truman's oval bulge - his penis isn't erect, his penis forms an oval bulge in general. One of Stalin’s fingers sinks slowly into Truman. His other arm holds Truman firmly in place around his waist.

"This is mine," he whispers aggressively. "All mine. Do you understand?" He eases his finger in and out as he gazes down at Truman, gauging his reaction, his eyes burning.

"Yes, yours..." Truman says.

Abruptly, he moves, doing several things at once: Withdrawing his fingers, unzipping his trousers' zipper and pushing Truman down onto the couch so he's lying on top of Truman.

"Hands by your side,” he commands through gritted teeth as he kneels up, forcing Truman's legs wider...

"Sit there and do not move or this will be prolonged. Do you understand? Don't come, or I will spank you," Stalin says through clenched teeth. Truman nodded compliantly, remaining still so that Stalin would be able to continue with his efforts of sexual stimulation. Stalin removed his forefinger from Truman and went over to the glass cabinet above the framed picture of Vladimir Lenin. From the cupboard, he took out three riding crops with varying sizes and leather types. "You'll love this one, Harry. It's a limited edition sado-masochistic intended riding crop, it's one of my most prized possessions along with Clement Attlee's dismembered penis." Stalin said, fingering the dismembered dick that was inside his black laced panties. Truman had no idea what those words meant and he didn't want to know what they meant either. He kept silent, attempting to maintain a state of serenity to persuade Stalin of his supposed dedication to bondage's homosexual copulation. "Put yourself in those handcuffs, then pass to the key to me once you're done." Stalin said, facing the large mirror across the room, unlacing his lace-up floral brassiere. Truman spread his legs across the bed, bringing his head closer to the bed's headboard. At the two willow bed posts remained the same fur handcuffs. The key was beside a tube of suntan lotion left over from their intercourse before, utilised as lubricant. Truman took the key and unlocked the first handcuff, then the second. Truman proceeded to link the fur handcuffs around his hands entirely. Truman handed over the rusty key to Stalin, who then looked at the key for ten seconds before swallowing it. Stalin literally swallowed a fucking key. "Right, Harry. I see you're tied up." Stalin declared.   
"Yes... I am, Daddy." Truman gulped, twisting his shoulders to seem slightly aroused for a man who was tied up in fluffy handcuffs, which emasculated Truman. Fluffy handcuffs seemed to deprive any man of his dignity regardless of the situation the fluffy handcuffs would be used in.

Stalin yields a knife from his endless pocket of black laced panties. Truman moves from his static position, "J-Joe? What are you going to do with that?" Truman says, edging away from the bed.   
"Don't worry, it'll feel nice." Stalin smiled, looking down at Truman's legs.

The blade sings to Truman. Faintly, so soft against his ears, its voice calms his worries and tells him that one touch will take it all away. It tells Truman that he just needs to comply and it will slide a long horizontal slice along his wrinkled leg. A clean and precise slice. It tells him the words that he has been begging to hear: this will make it ok. Truman woke from his daze, "What the fuck?” Truman thought. The room was transcending his mortal boundaries and the room's natural lighting from the dozens of candles started to form a single light, blinding Truman's senses. "No please, Josef. Please stop." Truman pleaded, floundering in the bed. “What have you done to me?”  
“That red wine. That is what happened.” Stalin said, his solemn gaze piercing Truman’s soft eyes.

When Stalin had offered Truman the glass of red wine he’d poisoned it with the tainted trick of the Soviets. The tainted trick was a controversial substance, used for sedating people, usually vulnerable women before non-consensual copulation. “It will only last for twenty minutes, Harry.”   
“Joseph, please!” Truman began moving his limbs uncontrollably again, but Stalin restrained his body with the heavy mass of his body by spreading himself on top of Truman’s body like a starfish.

“I said stay _still_ , Harry.”


	15. The Past That Haunts

Stalin swarmed past Truman’s unresponsive corpse-like body, trailing him with the end of his riding crop. Stalin unzipped the zipper on his trousers and withdrew the instrument inhabiting within them. Stalin placed his dick on Truman’s side and began arranging the sheets in a faultless position. Stalin put the dick into his hand, squeezing a small amount of excess suntan lotion onto his dick. He distributed the suntan evenly among the cylindrical peripheral of his dick, providing his envisioned insertion a feasible entry. Stalin’s vast desires weren’t restricted by Truman’s resistance, but Stalin failed to act on those desires swarming his mind. Stalin’s spread body over Truman’s lay still, Stalin looked directly at the closed eyes of Truman, kissing the eyelids with the soft touch of his lips. “I can’t do this” Stalin said out loud, shameful of his intentions to harm Truman in a masochistic way. His held his dick and rammed it back into his trousers, discarding his dark intentions. Instead, Stalin stared at Truman’s physique. He removed himself from Truman’s side, removing his spread star-fish body from Truman’s cold remains.   
Previously sadistic intentions were transformed into general surveillance. Stalin monitored Truman’s rhythmic breaths, his chest rising when he’d take a slow and prolonged breath, his chest lowering when he would exhale, this was how Stalin knew Truman was still alive. Stalin didn’t know of the drug he’d tainted the wine with, all he’d known was that his close Soviet associates had provided him with the substance. Perhaps he should’ve asked for the ingredients and inquired if Truman was hypersensitive to any of them, since Stalin didn’t exactly yearn for the death of Truman, for relationship and political issues that may ensue if he were to kill Truman.   
Truman was beautiful unconscious. His hair wasn’t disarrayed, his hands clasped together, refined as usual. Stalin wanted to take Truman out for dinner, a chicken casserole with curled kale as a side dish was appealing to Stalin, unusual for a man that was scheduling a rape of a man and whip him with varying riding crops. Stalin was an unpredictable man, a man with no fortune in the sector of tenderness and coherent relationships. Harming Truman seemed like an elaborate plan to Stalin, but it was palpable that his past was still lingering by him.

  
"Joseph, what have you done?" Truman said, flailing on the bed, finally awake from his short daze.  Stalin took a cigar out of the top drawer of his bedside table. He lights the end of the Cuban cigar with a match he struck against a match box. Stalin placed his lips around the cigar's edges, inhaling the fumes. "You don't know me very well do you, Harry?" Stalin says, blowing the Cigar's smoke into Truman's face. Truman immediately closing his eyes. "You know, I thought you were different from the others."  
"What? What others?" Truman asked, genuinely confused at what Stalin meant by 'the others'.   
"I'll keep this short, Harry." Stalin said, taking a seat on the side of the bed, close to where Truman's tied up arms were. "You're familiar with a man called Adolf Hitler?" Stalin asks.   
"Of course, I am, how is this relevant?"  
Stalin takes another inhalation of Cigar smoke and sighs, crossing his left leg over his right. "Well, you know how the Soviet army surrounded the führer bunker and practically defeated Hitler." Stalin says, blushing at his arrogance. "Very modest, I know." Stalin pauses. "Anyway, Adolf and I were in a two-year relationship. It wasn't a healthy relationship to say the least, I had a slight tendency to be melodramatic and he would..." Stalin pauses again, uncomfortable and regaining his strength, "he would hit me."   
"I-" Truman said, restricted after Stalin's interruption.

"Let me finish, Harry!" Stalin shakes his head and continues his sentence. "He was planning a world domination but I didn't approve of it. I'd try and I'd try to convince him to withdraw his troops from Poland and to surrender. He didn't and he-" Stalin takes a deep breath, "he betrayed me. Out of all the things he did to the world, the worst thing he did was betray me." Stalin took the Cuban cigar out of his mouth, eyeing it then throwing it across the room. "H-He cheated on me with Reich minister of propaganda of the Nazi party, Joseph Goebbels," He met Truman's eyes and said "After that I was solely focused on obliterating him, Nazi by Nazi and concentration camp by concentration camp. Do you have any idea what that does to a man?" Stalin fulminated, eyes fixated on Truman's cuffed hands tied to the willow bedposts. Truman just stared at Stalin, speechless and unable to speak due to Stalin's intimidating posture.

Stalin took the riding crop that was next to his feet, untouched. He removed the plastic casing that covered the riding crop and rested it in his mouth. "Get ready, Harry." He murmured through the plastic, "Prepare yourself."  
"Prepare myself for what?" Truman started to move uncontrollably on the bed, attempting to leave but that was prevented by the restraints attached to his arms. "What the fuck are you going to do?" Truman said while Stalin began to leave the room and go into the suite’s bathroom. "Joseph!"

Truman looked to his bedposts by both sides of his shoulders, urgently rattling his tied arms in an attempt to break free. He was envisioning his escape, he could imagine the key that Stalin swallowed being regurgitated, coated with Stalin's vodka scented saliva but that didn't bother Truman. Another theory was that he'd somehow break through the willow bedposts, but that theory was unrealistic as the bedposts were reinforced. "Fuck." Truman whispered to himself, again tugging the fur handcuffs in desperation. He'd no elaborate plan to escape Stalin's captivity. Truman began helplessly flailing his legs and arms.   
Stalin entered the room, he took notice of Truman's childish manor. "Stop that nonsense, Harry. You'll have to endure the same pain I've faced my _entire_ life." Stalin said, a tone sadness in his speech.   
"Are you alright, Joseph?" Truman asked Stalin. Stalin sat down, putting his hands on his face. A tear dropped onto Truman's exposed shin. " _No_ _one_ understands me and my pain," Stalin cried, his sobs preventing his words to be distinct as they usually are. " _God_ , I'm such a mess", he laughed psychotically, shaking his head. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this, Harry. I'm meant to be abusing you." Stalin admitted.   
"I would offer my support by patting your back but as you can see, I'm tied up." Truman added. "Joseph, tell me what's bothering you. I can help you." Stalin shook his head again.   
"But no one understands. What would make you any different from the others?" Stalin asked. It was Truman's time to be resourceful.   
"M-My father used to abuse me and my mother." Truman said, knowing entirely that what he'd said was false. Stalin turned his head to face Truman.   
"You were abused by your father?"  
"Yes, and I-"  
"Besarion Jughashvili was his name. That damned name. He'd beat me and my mother constantly until my mother couldn't take anymore and she took me a family friend's house, to shield me from my father's domestic wrath." He closed his eyes, envisioning the belt of his father lashing him. The bent over eight-year-old Joseph Stalin, being whipped by his father’s belt on the back of his legs. "Then Adolf, we'd met at his place in the Austrian mountains, it was always cold but we'd huddle together without clothes to share our bodily thermal heat, regulating our body temperatures to prevent hypothermia." Stalin laughed, slapping his knee hysterically. "That führer knew how to make a man orgasm," Stalin opened and twisted his mouth to recreate the face he'd display when he'd orgasm in the bed of the führer. "But then again, all love dissipates in the end. My dad battered me and so did Adolf." He shrugged his shoulders, gritting his teeth. Truman put his naked feet onto Stalin's shoulder to comfort Stalin as his hands were preoccupied with the willow bedposts.   
"There, there. No need to worry because _Harry_ _Truman_ is here." Truman said, caressing Stalin's shoulder blade with his big toe. Stalin started to cry hysterically, shouting, "Why, father? Why, Adolf?" Truman hushed Stalin, putting his big toe on Stalin's lips. Stalin took another riding crop out of the glass cabinet, the crop he yielded was unlike any other riding crop. "My father used to beat me with this very riding crop. He'd-" Stalin took a moment to compose himself. "He'd lash me until I bled, until wounds formed with a waterfall of my metallic-flavoured blood, oozing from the expanding hole upon my knees. The blood would saturate my carpet and he would make my mother clean it." Yet another haunted memory flashed before Stalin's eyes, this one was of Adolf Hitler holding Stalin's face against a wall with floral wallpaper, the kitchen knives scattered on the surface older floors where Stalin had just finished cooking a casserole. "I crave love, Harry. But whenever I love someone it is dissipated and transformed into a wave of terror." Stalin raised his riding crop above his head, "And this is what I must do." Stalin pelted the riding crop towards Truman's knees. Truman exerted a high-pitched scream, his knees trembling as he did so. Truman's laboured breaths calmed but then raised again when Stalin pelted him the riding crop another time. "I don't want to do this, Harry." Stalin sighed, dropping the riding crop onto the bed. Stalin kneeled down on the floor beside Truman's side. Truman's heightened breaths were eased by the deposition of the riding crop.  
"Then _don't_ do it, Joe. Untie me from these emasculating manacles that chain me".   
"Give me a moment." Stalin left the room and went into the suite’s bathroom again. Truman rested his head upon the headboard, he searched the room, this time observing the many paintings nailed the bedroom's walls. Other than the framed portrait of Vladimir Lenin, there was a framed portrait of Jesus holding a baby lamb. A Jesus portrait was peculiar as Stalin wasn't necessarily a pure man, he'd killed his boyfriend who cheated on him and now he's whipping the thirty third president of the United States of America in his hotel room in Potsdam. All of sudden Truman hears the sound of a Russian regurgitating in the bathroom, Truman can hear the retches and the collision of Stalin’s vomit with the toilet's water. The toilet flushes, indicating to Truman that Stalin would enter the room. Stalin game in, his face pale and yellow clumps of uncooked carrots around his mouth. Truman smiles at Stalin, Stalin doesn't smile back. Stalin twists the key he'd just regurgitated, the vomit from his stomach still warm, coating the lock attached to the pink fluffy handcuffs with a thin layer of its translucent liquid. One of the carrot clumps adheres to the lock and Stalin lets it adhere. Once Truman's left hand is finally free, Truman stretches his arm, extending it upwards towards the painted portrait of Vladimir Lenin. "Don't touch that, Harry!" Stalin demanded, slapping his liberated wrist. "Sorry. It's my anger issues resurfacing again." Stalin admitted, walking to the other side of the bed where Truman's had still lay captive. Stalin twisted the key into the lock again and Truman was entirely liberated.   
"Thank you, Joe. Now I must leave as my associates will be concerned as to where I am." Truman smiled at Stalin one last time, and he started to pace the room, looking for his scarf he'd left behind. Once he found the scarf, which had been lying under the bed, he walked towards the door.   
"Where do you think you're going, Harry?" Stalin questioned Truman, eyeing him from his forehead to his polished wing rip shoes. His arm extended across the door's frame.

"After _all_ I've told you, do you really think I'd let you leave now?"


	16. Love’s Terminal

Chapter Sixteen – Love’s Terminal  
Stalin kept his eye on Truman's face, scanning his face for any anomalous features that would identify treachery. "Before you go, I _need_ to know I can trust you. As any man would ask of his boyfriend." Stalin said, placing his hands firmly on Truman's waist.   
"How do I show my commitment to you, Joseph?" Truman asked.   
"Follow me and take a seat beside the fire that I had my servants tend to earlier on." Stalin guided Truman into the room, firmly gripping onto his waist and urging him to advance forward. "Here." Stalin pointed to a wide sofa with a large blanket upon it. Stitched to perfection. Truman sat, patting the sofa, acclimatising himself to the new environment. Stalin gazed upon the fireplace and the wood logs surrounding it. "So I've told you about Adolf, my father and practically my entire life. You know my deepest and darkest secrets, repressed memories that poison me." Stalin turned his head to Truman, his leg weaved between the other leg.   
"Joe, I've shared my secret with you, what makes me think I'll betray you?" Truman asked, formally positioning himself to face Stalin.   
" _Lie_!" Stalin stood up, sprinting towards Truman. "I know it's a lie. I just do!" He looked at the fire and looked back at Truman, "Do you think I can't see that blatant deception in those perfect blue eyes of yours? Adolf did that. Adolf, my beloved boyfriend. He did that!" Stalin brought his face closer to Truman's and released the toxic fumes of vomit into Truman's nostrils.   
"Joseph, you need help." Truman said, calming Stalin's enraged manner.   
"I've tried. Dear Vladimir Lenin, I've tried!" Stalin curled his lips and smiled. "I'm a sadist, Truman. I love watching the men I love destroy people, drop that bomb. Drop it on all of those Japanese children, let their skin burn from the radiation!" Stalin laughed manically, wheezing at the thought of an atomic bomb ploughing through the towns of innocent men, women and children.

Truman rose from his seat on the sofa, holding Stalin's radical arm movements. "Get off, Truman!" Stalin resisted Truman's restraint. "I'll watch them burn," Stalin growled, saliva trickling down his chin, spitting the excess onto the Truman's forehead. "let them burn, and let them burn. Truman, let them burn!"  
"Stop it, Joe! Stop it now!" Truman demanded Stalin. But Stalin was overcome by his rage, his traumatic past of his abusive father and Adolf Hitler was taking its toll on Stalin. He'd turned utterly insane, manic beyond explanation. Truman knew Stalin was broken inside, but Stalin was irreparable, his wounds were too vast to tend to. Truman kept his hands gripped around Stalin's uncontrollable hands. "I'm sorry, Joseph. It has to be." Truman said, removing his hands from Stalin. He reached into his pocket, he yielded the fluffy handcuffs' key, cleansing it by swiping the yellow sediment across his grey polyester trousers. Stalin stopped shaking, the stream of drool losing its continuous flow. Confusion swept Stalin's face, his eyebrows raised and his arms rested. "Harry-"   
Truman swiped the metallic key across Stalin's neck, blood sprayed from the new wound. Molecules of blood was bespattered upon Truman's face, he briefly closes his eyes to prevent the blood from contacting his eyes. Stalin stumbles onto the floor, feeling the floor for the key that Truman dropped.   
"I didn't want it to result in this." Truman bowed his head, leaving the scene with a blood-saturated scarp in his hands. He tossed it onto his shoulders, letting it sway with his leg movements. Stalin affixed his hand onto his neck, which was still producing a fountain of projected blood spatter. Through his muffled speech Stalin says, "Don't leave m-me here." Reaching his hand towards Truman.

"You're a damaged man, Joseph Stalin. Not only are you a sinner but you coerced me into burying the mutilated body of Clement Attlee." Truman says to Stalin. Stalin attempts to crawl towards Truman, but is slowed down by the necessity to shield his exposed neck from the surrounding environment and disease. Truman looks down upon Stalin who was now cradling himself in a foetal position.  
"Truman, I thought you were different from the other," Stalin says to Truman, his eyes filled with concern and desperation.   
"You thought wrong, commie." Truman walked to the door leading to the hallway and closed it. "It is true that I fucked you and we shared a somewhat intimate bond." Truman fingered the threads of his blood-saturated scarf. "The thing is, Joseph, I wanted to fuck Clement Attlee." Truman sighed, looking at Stalin, curling the side of his lips. "I'd initially assumed that he wasn't available so I compromised. I took the closest Soviet dick to me." Truman points his forefinger towards Stalin's forehead, then embedding his finger between the thick walls of Stalin's adipose forehead. "I am the prosperous man! You're the equality king who's extremely inconsistent!" Truman said, mocking Stalin's Russian tone with the arch of his back and the elevation of his polysyllabic words.

"My dick didn't just miraculously rise at the sight of Clement Attlee. God, that man's body was a dream. It was a dream until you bludgeoned him to death with a fucking hole punch.” Truman said, grabbing the lapels of Truman's drenched attire and tugging them towards him. Stalin, still bleeding from the almost surgical incision across his neck. "You were my dream and you can still be my everlasting dream, Harry." He crawled towards Truman, pausing, placing his blood-stained fingers over his wound oozing red liquid. "I loved you, but you betrayed me. You know what happens to men who betray me don't you?" Stalin asked, the final word of his sentence dissipating into the abyss as he chokes on the blood rising up his gullet. He coughed, blood splattering onto the carpet, his front canines and prominent chin trickling with the thick coagulations of blood forming at the sides of his mouth.

Truman releases his grip from the lapels, resting his arms against his torso. “I’m leaving.” Truman announced, scolding at the sight of Stalin’s deteriorating state. Stalin removed his hand from his neck, letting the blood flow from the wound. Stalin falls to his knees, in his fixed position he curls up into a ball of red flesh. Truman walks to the door once more, twisting the golden-coated handle.

Truman shuts the door without turning back. The flames of the candles eradicated from the breeze induced by the slam of the suite door.


	17. The Phone Call

Truman arrived at his own hotel, dozens of American associates were crowding around his room door. Truman was showering in his partially translucent shower, the blood that was stained on his hands and knees was leaning via the drainage system attached to the bottom of the basin. "Mr. President!" One of the associates exclaimed from behind the walls. "Mr. President, this briefing is an imperative. Please remove yourself from the shower and follow us to the conference room." The conference room. Truman's silence was broken from those last two words spoken by his associate.  
"Briefing? What about?" Truman asked while running his fingers through the Aloe Vera shampoo and conditioner in his hair.   
"The prime minister of the United Kingdom hasn't been seen since last night." Truman swallowed the water collected in his mouth from the running water pouring on top of him.   
"I-I'm coming," Truman announced, stepping out of the shower's basin. The associate of Truman intruded in on Truman, shielding his eyes with the side of his blazer arm. "I'm sorry, Mr. President. But you ought to come with us immediately." Truman turned his eyes north, letting them fester in his skull for three seconds then releasing them.   
"Who are you?" Truman asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest and dropping the saturated towel onto the floor, revealing his low-hanging flaccid testicles.   
"I'm your associate..." The associate responded, intimidated by Truman's display of abhorrent display of shrivelled genitalia.   
"Your name. Your name is what I want, _fool_." Truman demanded, in a rather patronising tone.   
"My name is Jimmy. Jimmy Carter."  
"Listen here, little Jimmy. Are you the president of the United States of America?" Truman asked, becoming closer towards Jimmy.   
"No. But I hope to be the president one day," young Jimmy said, backing away from the toxic fumes of Truman's decaying breath.   
"What the _fuck_? Jimmy pretentious Carter, you'll never be president. While I'm getting showered, respect your leader and comply with the demands of the president."

Truman slapped the fresh beige towel that young Jimmy Carter held between his hands. "Speak to me with attitude like that again, young twink, and I'll remove your status in the White House!" Truman fixed his eyes onto Jimmy's nose, which was comprised of a layer of pores and grease. Timmy bowed his head into his double breasted polyester two piece suit and left the room, leaving a pile of papers on Truman's bedside table. Truman took the pile of papers, scouring the front pages for any relevant self-applicable notes. On the sixth page, it read: Clement Attlee missing after conference. Truman dropped the papers onto the floor, coming to the realisation that last night he'd helped to assist the murder of Clement Attlee and killed Joseph Stalin. He raises his wrist, looking towards his diamond Rolex. The time is eight o'clock in the morning, too early for Truman considering the time he arrived at his hotel. "How did I arrive at the hotel?" The thought to himself, Truman hadn't been able to collect the memories after he left Stalin's suite door.

Truman fondled his low-hanging testicles, playing with the excess foreskin with his dirt-ridden nails attached to the tips of his prone-to-polio fingers. "How?" He still spoke to himself, still confused as to how he'd managed to arrive back to hotel room, intoxicated and covered in foreign blood.

The phone rang. It's continuous dings and repetition of high-pitched undulations of artificial instruments pierced his ear drums. That was strange, there had been no telephone in Truman's room the night before, and the night before that. Truman stood still, staring at the plastic box on his wall.

The phone keeps ringing.

Truman came to terms with the possibility that the telephone would never be silenced, so he walked towards to newly-installed telephone on the wall. He removes the phone from its designated position and raises it towards the centre of his ear. "Hello?" Truman asks the silence in the receiver. He awaits a reply but he receives none. Impatient, Truman taps his feet against the floor's wooden boarding. "Hello, who's there?" He asks again.   
"Hello, Mr. President." The same Russian tone Truman heard last night said on the other end. Truman was about to place the phone back into its original place, but he'd resisted the temptation.   
"Who are you?" Truman asks, his voice trembling, unable to shield the listener from his worry.   
"You know exactly who I am, Harry," Spoke the Russian tome in the phone. Truman holds the phone's curled wires closer to his chest, collecting them into a layered pile of twisted wires, all connected to the Russian voice coming from the phone's head.   
"Joseph? H-How?"  
"Vladimir found me on the floor," Stalin said, breathing heavily through the phone's voice receptor. "He found me in a pool of my own blood, Harry. A pool of blood you caused. You wanted to kill me. You wanted to kill your darkest secret, a gay lover with a waxed moustache." Stalin settled his fast breathing by labouring his breaths.

"Not only have you broken my heart, you've broken the heart of The Soviet Union."

Truman dragged his behind and his back down the wall, still cradling the phone in his arms. He brought the receiver towards his mouth, “Joseph, what happened last night was deplorable. Taking your anger out on my nation won’t resolve your vengeance.” He said directly into the receiver, his voice breaking at the last syllable. There was silence on he phone line for a while but then Truman heard indistinct noises in Stalin’s background. “Don’t do this, Harry. You attempted to murder me and now you’re placing a facade? Out of all the world leaders you choose me to deceive?” The phone line crackles, creating a synthetic pause in Stalin’s sentences. “The fucking dictator of The Soviet Union?” Truman looked across his room eagerly, searching for a possible escape.   
“If you do anything stupid, Stalin. I swear to God that I will nuke you!”  
“Fucking try me, bitch.” Stalin’s speech became muffled as his anger increased. “What are you going to fucking do to me? I got this new ICMB called- “Stalin pauses.

“ _The_ _Tsar_ _Bomb_.”

Silence roams the phone line. Both Truman and Stalin estimating each other’s thoughts and emotions. “If you don’t speak Russian, tsar means- “  
“I know what it fucking means.” Truman interjected, his head lowering into his chin. Another silence prevailing across them both. The door of Truman’s door opened slightly, “If that’s you, Jimmy Carter I will lynch your parents!” Jimmy left the room immediately, pleading for Truman to listen to his requests with the glint of sadness embedded in his eyes.

“I have something else.” Stalin says.   
“What have you got?” Truman sighed.   
“Eyewitnesses. Your body fluid on my trousers.”  
“Just you wait until I inform people that you killed Clement Attlee.”   
Stalin laughed into the phone, but his laugh was interrupted by his sudden cough, induced by the cigars he smoked daily. The phlegm rose to his trachea, his cough now moist and overpowering Stalin’s tongue. He clears his throat, “I learned by heart the lines of your face. I can draw them with my eyes closed.   
Your face reminds me of the centre of un-tainted butter: silky, soft and yellow. Your face is the antagonist to my protagonist- a mild face when you’re at fault. Your face filled with rainbows of laughter. Your face filled with clouds of distress.  
Your face, fluttering, when I open your entrances. Your face, agonising, all that time I spent waiting for you at the conference. Your face, eager, when you kiss me. Your face, surprised, when I put you in restraints. Your face in the middle of pain. Your face on the periphery of pleasure.  
Your face, with a baffled look, when you wake up. Your face falling asleep, with total surrender to my riding crops. Your face the first day we met. Your face the last night we parted.  
I learned by heart the lines of your face. They all led me into hell.  
They all led me into heaven.  
And they all us to nuclear warfare.”


	18. The Briefing

“Joseph?” Truman asked. The phone no longer had a connection to Stalin, the sound of static was what Truman was listening to, attentive to the noise to find sounds that resemble a Russian man his late fifties. “No! No!” Truman shouted, throwing the wire-attached phone to the wall, it immediately retaliates and pelts Truman’s face. Truman groans and resettles himself on the floor, putting his hand atop of his partially bludgeoned eye. “Shit.” Truman says out loud, contemplating his array of errors that occurred the night before.   
“Mr. President, you really need to come to the briefing.” Young Jimmy Carter said to Truman, he’d been lurking behind Truman’s hotel room’s door. Truman was exhausted from his self-inflicted wound and the late arrival last night, which he’d failed to remember, so he’d no apparent effort to refuse the briefing.   
“I’ll go now, Mr. Carter.” Truman said. Jimmy looks at Truman, scanning Truman’s attire choice.   
“Mr. President, you’re in a saturated beige cotton towel,” Jimmy said, perplexed and still observing the towel.   
“If the briefing is as important as you are persistent then my attire certainly does not matter.” Truman lifts his saturated towel towards the centre of his lower torso region and ties a knot to keep the towel stable. “Lead me there.” Truman demanded Jimmy. Jimmy bowed his head and moved his arm to Truman, indicating to Truman that he should follow him to the briefing.

“I think you should at least get a different towel. Perhaps a _dry_ one?” Jimmy asks Truman, expressing his concern regarding the speculations that could possible arise against Truman if he were to attend the briefing wearing just a saturated towel.   
“What have I said to you, Jimmy?” Truman stopped walking. “I will wear what I want to wear.”   
Jimmy nods his head in compliance, finally absorbing the required knowledge from his previous mistakes about asking the president personal questions. Jimmy led Truman down the hallway, following a series of stairs leading to the main entrance of the hotel’s building. The hotel staff stared at Truman’s dripping towel wrapped around his waist, their stares not troubling Truman in the slightest as Truman was preoccupied with his own issues battling Truman’s inner thoughts. ‘’The limousine awaits you, Mr. President” Jimmy points his hand towards the black limousine parked outside of the hotel, he grins at Truman.  
“Do you think I’m blind, Jimmy? I can see that the _fucking_ limousine is awaiting me.” Truman sneered at Jimmy, belittling his presence in a single second. Jimmy doesn’t respond, instead he continues to stand beside Truman, but more sorrowful. Truman walked towards the limousine, an American in a black suit greeting Truman, initially his eyes focus on Truman’s towel around his waist but quickly reasserts the position of his eyes onto Truman’s face. “You’re late.” The suited man says through gritted teeth, although Truman doesn’t reply, Truman walks past him, entering the door he was holding open. He places his moist behind on the seat, causing the water to expand on it. “Do you mind if you-“The driver sitting in the front said, however he was abruptly interrupted by Truman.  
“Do your job and drive to the briefing”, Truman sat back into the chair, now spreading moisture onto the back of the seat, “I’ll pay for that.” Truman declares, laying his saturated golden locks of hair onto the head rest. Truman adjusted the headrest and slept during the entire ride.

“Mr. President, Mr. President?” Truman’s body shook from side to side, he felt numerous hands grasping upon his shoulder and knees. The hands gripping onto his dignity, just as Stalin had done the night before. “Fuck, it’s happening again. It’s happening again.” Truman spoke to himself.  
“Mr. President, the briefing.” The driver was gripping onto Truman’s cold shoulder, attempting to wake Truman from his dazed sleep. “Are you okay? You were murmuring some concerning things during your slumber.” Truman slapped the driver’s hand with his dominant hand, wiping his hand on his towel shortly after. “Don’t touch me, brute.” Truman instantly held his hand, restricting further aggression to pursue. “I’m sorry.” Truman says, gazing at his reflection in the rear-view mirror of the front section of the limousine. “Who am I?” He asked himself out loud, looking down at his hand, not recognising the foreign acceleration of rage inflicted upon the driver. “I’ll give you a minute.” The driver said, closing the door behind himself, leaving Truman by himself, surrounded by his unfamiliar form. Truman lifted his other hand, examining it, then feeling for his blonde hair to certify its existence. “I am the thirty-third president of the United States of America?” Truman ruminated to himself. “Sitting in a limousine with a saturated towel tied to my waist, and I’m about to attend a briefing regarding the disappearance of Clement Attlee and abundant topics I simply don’t care about.”

The driver knocks on the door of the limousine’s window, eliminating the silence in the empty limousine. Through muffled speech the driver says, “You need to come out now.” Truman watched him, concentrating his eye on the driver’s American flag embroidered into the left breast of his blazer. The driver opened the door, allowing a stream of artic wind to flow through the open wound of the limousine. The driver unbuttoned his blazer, expanding the arms to coat Truman’s shoulders, but Truman refuses the courteous gift by sloping his neck frontwards. “Let me be exposed to the climate. Don’t sacrifice yourself.” Truman said, then departing from the driver.

“You’re- “  
“I know I’m _fucking_ late!” Truman bellowed to his associate greeting him at the door. Truman flung the doors open, the ties of his towel flowing with the new-found wind, intruding in on the ongoing briefing. A group of American men sat opposite each other on a rectangular table, glasses of water and stacks of paper were piled before the men. They were conversing, aggressively for an alleged briefing, then all conversations stopped, and all the men looked towards Truman and his saturated beige towel tied around his waist. “Mr. President…” Said the man standing, “We need to d”  
“Call me Harry.” Truman interjected.  
“Mr. President we should really- “   
“I said call me Harry. Joseph calls me Harry.” Truman said, he shielded his mouth with his hand while his eyes moved from corner to corner. Quickly, the entire room focusing on the prominent conversation between Truman and the man. The men stared in awe, each collectively raising the decibel level in the room. “Quiet, everyone!” The man whom Truman still didn’t know the name of.   
“Mr. President, are you colluding with the Russians?” One of them said.  
“Sir, why are you wearing a towel that is retaining more water than it’s intended to retain?” Another one said.   
“How are your abdominals so sculpted, where do you- “  
“That is enough!” Truman interrupted, “I’ve had enough of this fucking government conspiring against me. Pledge your allegiance to your president and show your devotion to me.” It happened again. The unexpected inner-dictator in Truman resurfaced, emotions he’d never felt before were overwhelming him, desensitising him from criticism and opposition. Truman looked around him, around the saturated towel tied around his waist, around the men in the conference room.   
“Mr. Pres- I mean, Harry, is there something that you need to inform us about?” One of the men said.   
“ _No_ _one_ calls him Harry but me!” A Russian voice sounded from the entrance of the room. All men gyrated their necks to face the door, all at once. They see Stalin riding in on a horse into the room, the monstrous riding crop entrenched in his fingers.


	19. The Cold War

Stalin commands his horse to pound the bodies of the American men in the room, shouting unintelligible commands in Russian. The horse firstly tramples over the head of one of the US senators in the room, causing their head to implode as a watermelon would. Their blood bespattering onto the polished rectangular table, staining the papers piled on it. Then, the horse kicks its hind legs into the face of another man, John Edgar Hoover, the horse successfully pummelled his face with its hooves, creating an irreplaceable laceration on his face, allowing Hoover to bleed out as time proceeds. Another US senator gets pelted with the blunt end of a Soviet's shotgun, then shot in the face after. The bloodbath continues, but this time Stalin's assisted by his Soviet Army. The soviets were armed with submachine rifles, killing each of the men standing by the stream of blood surrounding their feet. Every Soviet manages to successfully assassinate every American man, but Truman, in the room.

The firing stops, the last of the bodies topple over each other, collapsing onto the scarce remains of their past associates. Stalin's horse stops trampling over the mangled corpses of Americans and walks with a slower pace towards Truman, whom the horse was forced to swear a solemn oath of protection to. "Joseph...I- "  
"You're sorry? I guessed that." Stalin disrupts Truman's plea, lowering his head, stroking the horse's long hair. "After all we've been through, Harry. Even after I killed Clement Attlee and you attempted to kill me, I still can't resist you and that irresistible golden river flowing above your head." Stalin says, raising his head and looking directly at Truman. "You've changed me and I've changed you, Harry. I have told you things that I've never told anyone before." Stalin murmurs, smiling to himself and the horse. He shakes his head, "And I was _wrong_ about you, Harry. You aren't like the others. You're not like them or Adolf." Stalin restricts himself from releasing a tear. Truman shivers, the towel didn't prove suitable as the cold winds infiltrated the room through the ajar doors. Stalin lifted his leg from the saddle and lifted himself off the horse with the help of his Soviet associates. "Here," Stalin says, taking off his fur jacket from his shoulders, "Put this on, Babe." Stalin says as he puts the fur coat onto Truman's shoulders, Truman twists his shoulder to become more acclimatised to the new garment. "I made it myself." Stalin laughed quietly to Truman, placing his hand over Truman's shoulder. "We need to discuss something, Harry." Stalin said, suddenly more serious than expected. He continued to hold the back of Truman, directing him to a blood-soaked seat. Truman squeals as he trips over John Edgar Hoover's dead body, his eyes protuberant and still exposed. "Oops, mind your step." Stalin says, kicking aside the corpse.

Stalin seated himself and Truman sat beside him, Truman still shivering from the coldness. Stalin puts his hand on top of Truman's, resting it there. Stalin reaffirms his seating arrangement by bringing his chair closer to Truman. "Harry, as you know, this relationship, or whatever the fuck it is- it's prohibited." He says, bringing his chest forwards and exhaling.  
"No. Joseph, it was a miracle that I didn't kill you last night, that was a sign that we're meant to be together." Truman wept, tightening his grip on Stalin's hand. "We've had issues, Joe! Issues that aren't particularly normal but we got through those issues!" Truman slammed his head onto Stalin's hand, twisting his hands with the great jolts of his head.   
"I _don't_ want to do this, Harry." Stalin hesitates, "It's not me... It's the Soviet Union. Can you imagine the betrayal if we were to publicise this? It would be damaging for me and for you." Stalin says, unable to contain his sadness any longer, a tear descends his face and onto his chin. Truman removes his moist head from Stalin's hand, looking directly into Stalin's eyes. "I love you."  
"And I love you too." Stalin responds, lowering his eyes to Truman's hand clutching onto his. "Listen, Harry. The only way we can preserve our amity is by resuming things as they used to be. Tension between the Soviet Union and The United States." Stalin removes his hand from Truman's. "Don't resist it, it's the only way." Stalin says, repudiating the possibility of meeting Truman's eye as he felt another tear forming in his eye. He stands up and walks towards the door.  
"Wait!" Truman called out. Stalin turned around to see Truman now standing by his chair. "You can't leave without giving me a kiss." Truman sprints to Stalin, Stalin extends his arms towards Truman, letting Truman sink into his warm comforting hold. Truman adheres his lips onto Stalin's, the kiss he'd been yearning to initiate since last night was recommenced. Stalin's strong arms proving the perfect shield against opposing forces. Stalin stretches his tongue down Truman's extensive throat, Truman lets the tongue restrict his airways as he was willing to die for Stalin's love.

Stalin pushed Truman away with his hand, nodding his head to signal his departure. He kissed Truman's forehead, not wanting to leave the tight grasp of Truman's hands. "I love you, Harry, and I will always love you, no matter the circumstance." Truman was taken aback by the surreal moment, he had no words. Stalin mounted his horse and sat there for a few seconds, establishing a mental image of Truman to preserve. He mouthes the words, "I love you, my Siberian ice-cream", once more then commands his horse to turn towards the door. The Soviet Army joined Stalin, Truman waved back at the Soviet troops waving at him.

Then the last words Truman would ever hear from Stalin, "Have a happy Cold War!"


End file.
